Buy One Get One
by danrac
Summary: An upscale witch wants revenge on a certain hunter, or perhaps his boys. Wee!chester, a few sweet moments, but more action oriented. Not for anyone afraid of fires, lol. ..Papa Winchester comes thru for his boys, eventually.....
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Thanks so much to everyone who read My Name is Jessica. The response was lovely and encouraged me to post another fic. This starts with a brief prolong, the Winchesters appear in chapter 1 which I will post evening 2/12.

Prologue:

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"Remind me why we're going with this cockamamey plan again?" The larger of the two men slapped his hand on the rickety table for emphasis.

"Because the boss likes it, that's why." The smaller seemed undisturbed by his cohort's actions. He was used to him being a hot head.

"He's the boss because his sister has the cash, not because he's setting the world afire in the brains department. This plan is too complicated. Too many places it can go wrong."

"I don't care if he sets you afire as long as the cash keeps coming. His sister is as nuts as they come, but she's rich and nuts. She and those society types she hangs with, actually think they're witches from what I hear. And the truly crazy part is that somebody else believes it! Boss was on the phone with her, didn't know I was there. One of her little circle of friends got themselves killed by a witch hunter. Can you believe it?! Papers all said it was an accident, who's gonna go to the police and risk this insanity leaking out. So she wants big brother boss there to settle the score."

"Fine. I don't care why we're after the guy, they can all believe they're Tinkerbelle and spread pixie dust for what it means to me." The bigger man got up to pace. "But we should go shoot the man and be done with it. Involving a pair of kids doesn't make sense. The research you've handed me so far doesn't make that seem smart."

"You want paid, you go with it. Take another look at this map, this is the route they walk to school..."

"Even if we want to nab these boys, why not take them there, from the road?"

"I told you already, more than once I might add, that you aren't the why department. You are the kick and run department." The short one was starting to get a little hot headed himself.

"Fine. Whatever. Kick a seven year old and runoff like a girl. Highlight of my storied carrier. Sis going to turn me into a frog if I don't?"

"At least you'd look better."


	2. Chapter 2

"Is this about the freakin' chinese checkers, Sammy? Cause I already told you those checkers are mine until your lazy butt apologizes for leaving our room looking like a war zone." Eleven year old Dean Winchester glared at his brother in the early morning autumn air, but the kid seemed perplexed.

"It's not about the checkers, Dean. I told you already, I didn't take your skateboard. And you were there when our room morphed into a disaster, wasn't all me." Sam shuffled his feet a little in the leaves of the sidewalk. He hated when Dean was mad at him. He started to dip his chin a bit, intending to look up at Dean.

"Oh no you don't! No giving me that sad little puppy look! You took it, Sam, no one else has been near the motel room and I just don't see Dad skateboarding around anytime soon. Besides, I'm the one who's grounded for that mess. Walk faster runt, we're going to be late for school." Dean stomped a few feet ahead, leaving Sam to stretch out his shorter legs to keep up the pace. Truth be known, he was already over being mad at Sam. Never could fuss at the little guy for long. On the other hand, he wanted that skateboard back. No need to tell the kid he was off the hook.

He was about twenty feet ahead of him now, the shadows of the forest on either side of the road lightening as the sun started up, the sky tinting from purples into gold. Dean scuffed through the piles of leaves that were blowing together in minature drifts, slowing slightly so he wouldn't turn the corner out of Sam's sight. He didn't particularly care if they were late to school, but Sam loved every minute he could spend in the place. Go figure.

It was the yelp that sent him back to his brother, strides lengthening as he heard something hit the earth and then running feet. "Sam? Hey! Sammy?!?"

The bundle on the ground looked smaller in its stillness, a rumpled grey sweatshirt and hand-me-down jeans, shock of brown hair protruding from the edges. Dean's eyes swept up to the running figure, now fifty yards away. He took a step in that direction, then reassessed the wisdom of chasing a grown man with no weapon of his own while Sam lay on the ground. He slid to the dirt beside his brother, burrowing an arm underneath him and rolling him onto his back. "Sammy?"

To his relief, Sam's eyes were open, wide with surprise, but lucid. He was drawing short gasping breaths, held up a single finger for Dean to wait. Dean sat down flat, pulling Sam up so that he leaned against Dean's chest. It was a long minute before Sam gathered enough air to say anything.

"Man... kicked... me.... who?..... why?.... Dean?" He couldn't hide the quivering of his lip.

For all that the Winchesters had an unconvential life, the intentional cruelty of other humans John had carefully hidden away from his sons. At eleven Dean was starting to have an inkling, of course, but he'd felt no need to share the information with his seven year old brother. Sam was completely bewildered, lost eyes searching Dean's face for an answer.

"Kicked?" Dean was furious, too stunned to be afraid. He pulled up the sweatshirt, tugging the long t-shirt beneath free to reveal the livid red mark the length of Sam's ribs. "Awwh Sammy, I'm sorry. I don't know why kiddo. You okay?" _Dad is going to be pissed._

"Think so, Dean." Sam looked at the huge houses tucked among the trees hopefully, breath coming easier. "Maybe we could stop here?"

Dean looked at the houses, too. Rich people houses, nothing but trouble for their kind. No one was going to admit seeing a stranger kick a little kid. He'd rather not take Sam there, unless the kid was really too hurt to walk. Seemed to Dean that boys living in the rickety motel at the edge of the otherwise well to do neighborhood were likely to get one of two responses if they appeared on the doorsteps. Either the riffraff would be unceremoniously thrown out, or worse, a humanitarian do gooder would try to get involved in their lives and fix everything. Like Dad needed that.

Regretfully, he shook his head. "I don't think we should. Dad left this morning and won't be home until tomorrow, remember? Might draw a lot of attention our way. Try getting up, I'll help you back home."

Sam got to his feet a little slowly, but otherwise seemed functional. "Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"If we want everything to seem normal, shouldn't we go on to school?"

Dean considered that. He doubted the school would come looking for them for missing just one day, but that teacher of Sam's already seemed overly nosy about their family. She was nice enough, but if Sam thought he could get through the day, it might be better not to raise suspicion.

"Dean?"

The last thing Dean wanted was for Sam to realize he wasn't sure what to do. He decided and put a confident look on his face. "If you can hussle we'll only be a few minutes late. Make sure no one sees that bruise, if you start hurting too much, tell everybody you've got a sore throat or something and have the teacher get me. That's only a last resort though, since Dad can't come get us. If you're not pretty sure you can get through the day, tell me now."

"I can do it Dean, promise." Sam nodded solemnly, trusting in his brother's decision.

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Dean managed to spot Sam a few hours into the school day. The second graders were walking to the library as the sixth graders left gym; he seemed all right. It probably was better they'd come to school. The crowd ought to keep crazy strangers away, and then Dean would have only a few hours alone to protect his brother from whatever was going on. Maybe it was just some random nut job. Yeah right.

Sam actually didn't feel too bad, the left ribs pulling if he stretched, but his breathing was fine. By the time his gym class rolled around at the end of the day, he decided he could play whatever game the teacher picked out. Luck turned out to be with him when Mrs. Maddox declared this might be the last pretty day of the season and they should all head out to the playground and goof off in the sunshine. At least it should have been lucky.

Sam's favorite part of the playground was the jungle gym. He didn't think he could tackle the monkey bars today, but it might look funny if he didn't go over there. He was determined not to let Dean down. If Dean wanted him to act normal, then he was _not _going to be a cry baby about one single bruise. Dad got banged up at work and he never complained about it. Said it wasn't the Winchester way, Winchesters were different. Well, Sam was a Winchester too. Dean was gonna be proud of him.

It was a great plan right up until he decided to hang up side down from the gym cross bar. Gravity oddly enough treated Winchester sweatshirts just like everyone else's. As soon as Sam flipped himself over to dangle from his knees, the grey shirt bunched at his shoulders, the pale torso and giant blue bruise there for all to see.

"Sam Winchester, come here right now." His teacher's voice had a funny sound.

He hurried to the side of the playground, surprised when Mrs. Maddox ushered him back into the school without saying a word.

She finally sat him in a chair in the nurse's office, her facial expression pinched.

"Am I in trouble?" Sam was wracking his brain for what he might have done. He never got in trouble at school. Never. Why did it have to be today when he had promised Dean he'd do everything right?

Mrs. Maddox knelt beside him, coming to eye level and reaching a hand out to his shoulder. "Trouble? Of course not Sam, honey. I am worried about you, though. I saw your side just now. You want to tell me what happened?"

_Uh-oh. _"N-nothing happened. Fell down playing after school, that's all."

She lifted the edge of the shirt, not missing Sam's flinch backward into the chair. "Did you happen to fall on a boot, Sam?"

"A what? Why...." Sam was scared. He'd fouled this up somehow. He wasn't sure what he'd done, but priority one at school was not to be the center of attention. He wanted to go home.

"Sam, that bruise. It's a boot print. An adult's by the size of it. Want to try again? Whatever you tell me, it's ok."

"Fell." Sam tugged his shirt back into place, noticing that the school nurse was now standing at the door. "I want Dean."

"You want your brother? Why not your Dad? Did your Dad do this Sam?"

"No! Dad wouldn't hurt me. Dean's here already, that's all." Sam blinked back tears. "Can you get Dean?"

Mrs. Maddox stood with a sigh, tousling Sam's hair as she stood. "Wait right here, sweetie, Miranda and I are going to talk to Mr. Pope."

The principal? Not good. Not, not good.

The three of them stood outside the door, talking in quiet tones. Sam missed the first few sentences worrying about the fact that they were blocking the only exit from the room, then realized he could hear most of what was said if he held his breath.

"What do you think, Miranda?"

"Well, it's the first mark I've seen on him, although his brother had a black eye a month or so ago. Told his teacher he did it playing baseball. Seemed plausible at the time."

Mr. Pope interupted. "What makes it less plausible now?"

"Hard to put a finger on. I've met every other parent in the class, but not John Winchester. Their transcripts say they move more than Barnum and Bailey. And have you have ever watched the older boy? He guards this one like a hawk. Not normal for kids this young."

"Oh, I don't know. The mother died in a fire, obviously they're a little tight on money. Maybe the dad simply has to work a lot. It'd make the older boy protective."

"None of that explains that bruise. I think Sam's afraid to say anything."

The older man glanced in at the boy now huddled in the oversize chair, then back at his staff. "So what do you want to do?"

"Call the school officer and their dad."

"Okay. Class is out in fifteen minutes, you'll have to go get his brother from Mrs. Widelman's class. See if you can get the officer in here before the boys start comparing notes. I seriously hope you're wrong. I don't like the thought of this going on around here."

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The school officer was there at the end of the day, same as always, prepared for a mind numbing hour of cross walk duty. He was surprised when the school principal came out to meet him, suggesting a teacher handle the traffic for once. Five minutes later he was sitting with an increasingly distraught Sam. After a futile ten minutes, he shook his head. "It's ok son. I'm going to speak with your brother and then we'll sort this all out."

Dean was pacing in the principal's office, anxious to bull his way out of whatever he'd done this time and get out the door. Sam was probably looking for him out on the sidewalk by now. Mrs. Widelman knew he had to walk his brother home, what a stupid time to send him to the office. He wasn't even sure for what. Surely she wasn't still mad about that mouse incident last week. How was he supposed to know it'd go up her pant leg?

"You Dean Winchester?"

Dean was startled to see a blue police uniform instead of Mr Pope's perrienal brown suit. "The one and only."

"Ok, kid. I need to talk to you about your brother. What happened with that bruise on his side?"

Crap. Was Sam hurt worse than he thought? "He probably fell. We horse around a lot. Is he ok?"

"You have a reason to think he might not be?"

"No reason, just asking."

"I tell you what. I think maybe you've got a reason and maybe somebody kicked your brother. We're all going downtown, doctor at the clinic's gonna get a look at Sam, and then we'll find you somewhere to stay tonight."

"Stay? Hey look, that's thoughtful and all, but we've got to get home, so I'll get Sam and we'll be out of your way."

"Good try, but nobody can find your dad right now, so you're stuck with me. I thought you might be reluctant, so Sam's already in the cruiser."

Dean jerked his head up at that. Sam was stuck out in a police car? Shit. Kid was probably scared to death. Dean tried to think through every speech his dad had ever given him about the police and child protective services. Unfortunately, he'd paid a lot more attention to the ones that involved avoiding the situation or getting away. Hadn't really planned on needing the ones about how to handle things once you were caught. What he could remember all sounded unnatural. Be polite, be respectful, call me or Pastor Jim at the first opportunity. Let us do the lying, say as little as possible, act confused as to why I'm not home yet. Well, confused he could probably pull off, but polite?

He silently followed the officer out to the cruiser.

He spotted Sam through the window, shoulders slumped, head hanging. _How in the world did Mr. Teacher's Pet end up in the back of a black and white at the age of seven? Weren't there any actual criminals in this town to harrass? Polite, Dean. Dad said polite._

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The clinic exam room was Dean's first opportunity to talk to Sam alone since he'd made the disastrous decision to go to school. He'd done the wrong thing, that much was obvious. Should have taken Sam straight back to the motel and called their dad. "Sammy, you ok?"

"I don't like it here Dean. Let's go home." Sam was doing his best to stiffle a sniff. His eyes wandered over the shiny sea green tile floor wrapped up the first four feet of the walls as well, giving way to soft gray paint. The florescent lights completed the sallow look of the place, glinting of battered white cabinets and counter tops full of medical gizmos of all descriptions.

"I don't much like it either, but we're gonna have to get through tonight. Listen close in case we get split up. Tell the truth about the kick; it's too late to get around that now. Do not tell the truth about Dad being out if town now or ever. We expected him for dinner, Pastor Jim is who we're supposed to call if he's ever late. Do what they tell you, Sammy, and this is going to be ok. Dad will fix this, but we have to buy a little time. Got it?"

"Can't split us up, Dean."

"I'm thinking just when the doctor comes. You can do this. You can. Be a big guy for me."

Sam took a stuterring breath and looked up at his brother. "Don't like doctors, but ok. I can do it."

Sure enough a nurse appeared two minutes later, beckoning at Dean with a finger and a falsely cheery smile. "Why don't you come next door with me? We'll get you back with Sam as soon as we can. Meantime, Dr. Snodgrass will take a look at you while Dr. Philman sees your brother."

Sam cast a pleading look at Dean as he followed the nurse from the room, but Dean only nodded over his shoulder, mouthing 'you can do this.'

The nurse handed Dean a gown as soon as they entered the next room over. "Go ahead and change, I'll step outside. Doc'll be here in a minute."

"Umm, there's nothing wrong with me. You know that, right? Sam's the one with the boo boo. As a matter of fact, I should just go check on him..." Dean started to step around the nurse, but she blocked his path.

"Sorry. We have to be sure you're ok. " Her expression softened a bit, looked like maybe she really was sorry. "The social worker will be here soon with the court papers that say you get a physical exam, but if you're fine, wouldn't it make more sense to do it now?"

_Social worker. This keeps getting better_. "Yeah, a physical, terrific." He stared at her until she left the room.

Things weren't better next door. Sam was trying his best to get through this whole ridiculous situation, but he wasn't used to being without Dean or his dad. Sure, he wasn't with them at school, but he knew what to expect there. Here, the only advice he had was 'do what they say, be a big guy.' Didn't want to be a big guy. Wanted Dean.

"Sam, you need to change clothes for me, then hop up on the exam table. You need some help or you want me to wait outside?"

"Uh, outside. Do I have to do this? Where's Dean?"

"I'm afraid you have to do this. Dean's fine, he'll be back after the doctor sees you. I'm Karen, I'm with CPS. You know what that is?"

Sam shook his head, shaggy hair hiding deer-in-the-headlights eyes.

"We help take care of kids if their parents can't do that for some reason. I want to help you out Sam, ok?"

"Dad takes care of me."

"We'll talk about that in a little while. I've left him a message at the number the school had and I left a message for someone named Pastor Jim, ok?"

"Kay." Sam eyed the gown suspiciously, shrugging his shoulders when she stepped out. _Do what they say..._

"Hi Sam. I'm Dr. Philman. I'm going to check on that bruise, make sure you didn't break anything. Might as well check on the rest of you, too, while we're at it. Get you out of this year's check up, huh sport? "

Sam recognized the smile as an attempt to be friendly, and he'd certainly heard other kids talking about check ups, but he'd never been to the doctor unless he was sick. Fortunately, that hadn't been often. By the time he'd gotten through the stick out your tongue, say ah, breathe in, breath out, tap on knees, cough, I'll take a quick peek there routine he was silent, unsure where any of this fell between Dean's do what they say and Dad's don't let anyone touch you rules. Getting kicked by a looney was turning out to be the best part of this whole day.

An hour later both doctors, two nurses, the policeman, and Karen sat at the clinic's conference table, their chair backs scraping the walls in the confines of the tiny room. Dr Snodgrass was doing most of the talking. "The father not being home bit, that's a CPS call. But as far as child abuse goes, the evidence just isn't here. Sure, that bruise is from a kick, but they both tell the same story there. There's not another spot on either of them and no suspicious healed fractures on xray either. They're not afraid when they talk about their dad. I can't tell you why Sam didn't tell anyone at school what happened, but maybe you need to head over to Bridleridge and start poking around in those woods for someone who kicked a kid. That's it from our end, they're all yours Karen."

She flicked her eyes from the doctors to the cop. The teacher she'd spoken to earlier had seemed so sure. "If nothing else, I can't send them home alone for the night. I still haven't heard from their father. The pastor I called did call me back, seemed surprised the boys were alone, assured me John must have had car trouble or something. He's on his way, but can't be here until morning. I have a foster care family that can take both of them until then, longer if need be. Man's name is Derrick Weaver," she extended a business card, "and he'll be here within the hour. So actually until then, they're still all yours. Tell the boys I'll see them in the morning."

"Perfect, now we babysit, too?" Philman asked his partner.

"Looks like. Least I like 'em."

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Dean didn't like this a bit. Not one iota. He had a good sense for people and he didn't like Weaver from first glance. The crisp brown waves of his receding hair, the neatly clipped beard, cabled sweater with the funny suede patches on the elbows, brown cordory pants, should have all added up to some sort of professor, but underneath this was not a nice man. Dean could tell. He had to get through the night in his house. One night. Ok, we can do that. Have to watch out for Sam. If nothing else, they could bust out of the place and take off. Dean remembered all of Dad's advice on how to meet up again if he ever had to run. Quickly scanning the exam room while the nurse went to get Sam, he spotted an unlocked cabinet. Hmm, cottonballs and tongue depressors. He'd been hoping for a scalpel blade.

Sam fell in behind Dean as they walked out to the waiting car, eyes glued to the floor. He grabbed a fistful of jacket at the small of Dean's back, willing the day to just end. Mr. Weaver said hello to him as they climbed in the back seat, but Sam ignored him, scooting across the seat to put his head in Dean's lap. It was after eleven PM and he was exhausted. Dean never let him stay up past nine thirty on a school night. The car was already in third gear by the time he looked up and caught Weaver's face in the rear view mirror.

Sam clamped his hand into Dean's thigh, eyes wide as saucers, breath audibly sucked in. His whisper was nearly silent, but urgent none the less. "Him!"

Dean mouthed "What?" at his hyperventilating sibling, but he had a sinking feeling he knew the answer.

"It's him. He kicked me."


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Hello. Thanks to everyone who's reading. THis story is already complete and should post fairly quickly, but I'd really love to hear from you. This is the shortest chapter of the story, so I might get another one up late tonight if I'm feeling inspired.

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He stumbled through the motel door, hand absently rubbing the back of his neck as he squinted at the change in light. The sun was making its way up outside, but the interior was still dark, heavy floral drapes pulled closed. Those drapes were ugly as sin, but they did do a good job of getting rid of mornings you just weren't ready to face. Dean and Sam must being taking advantage of tapestry delayed dawn for a few extra hours of snooze. John dropped his keys on the formica table by the equally hideous print couch before fishing in the his jean's pocket for the remnants of a cell phone. He sighed when it came out in two halves; that slam into the wall was harder than he thought. Or at least harder than he would have wished for. Wishes or not, spirits had a knack for introducing Winchesters to walls. The exhausted hunter was glad this ghost was done, a pile of salty cinder.

John sank into the sofa, wearily pulling off stained boots. The worn cushions curled around his thighs, anchoring him to the fabric. It wasn't worth the short walk to his room to get what would be all too little sleep. Sam would no doubt be up soon and as soon as he was awake the non-stop chatter festival would be off and running for the day. Tired as he was, that thought still brought a smile. Dean looked more like Mary, had more of her expressions and mannerisms, but it was his youngest who had inherited her ability to simply talk so long that John surrendered before the onslaught. He'd lost count of the number of things he'd agreed to for his wife without even knowing the topic early in their relationship. It was a power Mary knew she possessed and she had used it to her advantage repeatedly. Maybe he could catch a few minutes shuteye before Sam's version of the never ending conversation started.

Sharp pounding on the door ruined that idea. _This had better be good._ He picked up his gun form the end table, carefully concealing it the waistband of the jeans before opening the door. He kept a hand lightly resting on the grip.

"There you are. 'Bout time, too. We've gotta talk, John, right now." A haggard looking Pastor Jim pushed past the senior Winchester, seating himself in a dilapidated chair and impatiently gesturing for John to do the same.

There were very few people that would survive shoving past John and inviting themselves in, but Jim Murphy was one of them.

"What's wrong?" The growl was a little harsher than John intended.

Jim really didn't want to be the one having this conversation with John, especially without a telephone line and a half dozen states between them. He edged his chair a foot further back, took a deep breath. No time like the present. "You haven't looked in on the boys yet, I take it."

John automatically stood, starting for the short hallway to the bedroom Sam and Dean shared, only hesitating when the pastor once again gestured to the opposite chair.

"They aren't there, John. I'm sorry."

'They aren't there' would probably have made him angry, but that softly added 'I'm sorry' made his breath hitch in his throat. He knew that voice from his friend, the compassionate whisper undertone that ministers so carefully cultivated for distraught families.

"Where. are. my. sons?!" The demand behind that query would have frightened the devil himself.

Pastor Jim was convinced he could see the bigger man shake. The whole tale of the school involving the police, the trip to the clinic, Sam telling the doctor there that a stranger had kicked him, and the call to CPS came out in rush, Jim cautiously watching his friend's eyes as fury built there.

"CPS has my boys stuck in a foster home?"

"Not exactly." Jim dreaded finishing his tale. "That was the plan, but..." He swallowed and then tried again. "I was supposed to call Karen Winter, the social worker, as soon as I got here this morning, which was about six. When I talked to her, she gave me the number for Mr. Weaver, the foster parent that took them last night. Unfortunately, I couldn't get an answer there, so I drove over to his home. There's no one there. The house is abandoned and I don't think anyone's lived there in months. I've already checked back in with CPS; they don't have an alternative address. The police are checking around, but for now, nobody has any idea where the boys are."

It would have been easier if he'd something, anything to suggest he wasn't contemplating where to start a murder spree to make the history books. Instead John was completely silent, grimly unloading rock salt from the sawed off shotgun he collected from behind the door and replacing it with iron rounds, tucking a hunting knife into the top of hastily relaced boots. There was no sign of the earlier fatigue, or even the flash of fear that had crossed his face when he first learned they were gone. No, this face could have been carved from granite.

"John, come on now, think a minute. Let's go to the police station and see what we can find out about this Derrick Weaver. Ms. Winter is supposed to be there already, and frankly the police station is where CPS is going to expect a responsible parent with missing children to be. Shooting somebody isn't going to help a thing." He started for the door, unsure how far he could push the boundaries of friendship and not end up with a broken nose. "You coming?"

"Responsible!? My boys should be safe in their beds, and I'm irresponsible? Half an hour. They get half an hour." John shouldered the shotgun and picked up an extra clip for the .45. "After that, I'm getting my sons back."


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: Hmm, didn't get to this last night. Hopefully that's not too big a deal for anybody. Thanks for the reviews, I really appreciate the feedback as this story takes a few chapters to get going. It picks up tempo as it goes and Dean gets his first try at pre teen kicking tail, lol. Hope to hear from you - it lets me know I'm not wasting time (not that I never do that, of course, but if I can argue I'm being productive here, then I don't have to feel guilty about not cleaning the house!)_

_._

_Jump?_

Dean tried to gauge their speed, wondering if he dared to push his little brother out of a moving car. Sam would trust him to do it, and in some ways that was exactly the problem. What if that trust led to Dean getting him killed? No, the car was too fast - he had to think of another way. Waiting until they stopped didn't seem smart either, every mile was taking them further away from their dad. Well, that might not technically be true, since Dean had no idea which way they were going or where their dad might be, but the idea was sound. They were getting further from familiar territory. He had to get the car stopped.

"Hey, Mr. Weaver?" Dean motioned for Sam to be quiet.

"What kid?"

"Sammy needs to go to the bathroom. Can we stop?"

Derrick's eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, taking in the older boy staring back at him, the smaller one curled in a ball in his lap. "Sam should have gone before we left the hospital. We'll be there soon."

Dean tried to keep his voice nonchalant. "Your car, man, but I doubt he can wait. Kid's got a peanut for a bladder and that nurse gave him like three sodas."

"First of all, you don't address me as man. Children these days are a disrespectful lot. Please and sir are going to work out a lot better for you than being a smart mouth. Secondly, I say where we stop. If he really needs to go that badly, I think there's a place a few miles ahead. We are not pulling off the side of the road like heathens, understood?"

Dean swallowed the sharp words lingering on his tongue. This man obviously hadn't figured out that Sam recognized him and playing along might keep his little brother safe for now. "Yes sir."

Dean was hoping they might pull into a fast food restuarant or store, some place where he could enlist help. Unfortunately, Derrick wasn't that dumb. After another fifteen minutes he pulled into a rest area that was largely abandoned at this time of night and stopped the car ten feet from the bathroom door. Dean signaled to Sam that he wanted him to actually go, it would give him a minute to look around and see if there was anyone there or some sort of escape route.

Sam gave a nervous glance backward as Derrick walked him the short distance to the restroom, large hand resting between narrow shoulder blades. To his credit, he didn't flinch. He might only be seven, but he wasn't a baby. Winchesters never got that chance, but he still hoped Dean figured this out soon. He would. Dean always figured out everything.

The sight of Derrick's hand on his brother irritated Dean, but he shrugged it off when the man stopped at the bathroom door, not following Sam inside. Sam had no idea why that might be a bad idea, and he intended to keep it that way. It was past midnight now, and Dean couldn't see any other cars nearby. Leaning against the side of the sedan, he surveyed the surrounding area. Even running here was a gamble, best they could hope for was a place to wait out the night. The area behind the small building was forested and hilly, so it should have any number of hidey holes.

Dean sighed. Making a run for it looked like the only alternative to getting back in that car. He starting thinking through everything their dad ever told him about how to hit someone bigger and stronger than you are. Derrick was a big guy and in the end Dean was fairly sure he'd get the crap beat out of him. It didn't matter as long as Sam didn't catch on too soon. His throat went a little dry - this was not going to be fun.

Sam walked back out into the night air, eyes immediately going to his older brother. Saw the eyebrow climb, took a breath for whatever Dean was planning.

Dean mirrored the deep breath, then gave a single nod at his brother. _Show time._ Dean whirled on Derrick, bringing a knee up in his crotch and screaming at the same time. "Sam! Run!" He heard the sound of his brother's pounding feet as Derrick doubled over, cursing at his smaller attacker. Dean grabbed a handful of the man's hair, slamming his head into the car window with a rather satisfying crack.

"You kicked him! He's a little kid!" Dean pulled his fist back, aiming for the throat. Unfortunately Derrick straightened up at the last minute, letting Dean's punch carry into the glass of the car. At least it didn't break.

"You're a just kid too and you're going to regret this, you little shit." Derrick punctuated his complaints with three hard punches to Dean's middle, knocking the wind out of him. To make matters worse, Sam called out from the woods.

"Dean! Come on! Dean!?"

Dean managed to kick out at Derrick, knocking him a few feet backward. "Keep going Sam! Hide until daylight, come down here when there is a crowd. Wait for four cars, at least!" Shouting at Sam and ducking a grown man trying to knock the stuffing out of him was proving problematic.

"But Dean..."

"Sammy GO!!" _Come on kiddo, I can't buy much more time here._ Derrick backed away, swiftly lashing out with a foot that caught Dean in the temple. The eleven year old crumpled to the pavement.

Sam saw his brother fall and almost stopped running again. Sam could already quote endless Johnathan Winchester lectures on what to do in a fight, but it was all theoretical knowledge. He'd never been on a hunt and no human had ever hit him, or Dean either for that matter. Dean had gone on simpler hunts, and the number one rule there was obey Dad. Number one rule here was probably obey Dean. Keep running.

Derrick nudged Dean with a boot, decided the kid wasn't getting up. Time to catch the other one. He grabbed a small supply bag from below the seat, pulling out the flashlight as he started into the woods.

The dark was as much an enemy as the man behind him, Sam having to slow his already short stride to dodge trees that seemed to jump into his path. Twice roots tripped him, allowing the footfalls behind him to draw closer. He could feel him catching up. This last burst of effort wasn't going to be enough. An arm snaked around him, lifting him off his feet until he was held tight against Derrick's chest. He tried kicking backward, his feet striking kneecaps, but it didn't help.

"Be still! Enough! God I hate kids." Derrick struggled to yank a length of fabric out of his bag without dropping the wildly struggling Sam. "Did you just bite me?! Shit." He finally brought the dampened wad of cloth to Sam's face, holding it tight until the drugged youngster went limp in his arms.

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"Idiot!" Abgail turned her back on the man before her, heels stomping against the dark marble floor. The manicured nails tapped against the door frame, plum polish precisely matching the nubbed silk of her designer suit. The deeper purple of an amethyst caught the light at her hand and throat. A bystander would have still found her beautiful, no longer young but somehow more exotic for it, shoulder length chestnut hair swinging in to frame smoke grey eyes eyes and an incongruent smattering of faint freckles. Derrick Weaver, however, knew her far too well to consider her beautiful. Abigail Williams was terrifying.

He was foolishly beginning to hope that she was disgusted enough with him to go on out the door. Instead she spun back around, flushed face poorly concealing her anger. "Remind me why you were playing foster parent, Derrick." The purr of her voice rattled the bones in his spine.

"Abigail, I'm sorry. I know this isn't how this was supposed to work. That social worker, Karen, she wouldn't listen to me. Insisted I take both boys. I'd have lost them both if I'd protested any more. I told your brother this was too complicated...." He flinched as her fingernails left a bloody trail down his already bruised cheek. "Abigail, please..."

"Please what? Please listen to you when you couldn't even get some county social worker to listen? Please don't scar that ugly face of yours? Please don't let any more eleven year old children crack on your skull? Please don't serve you as tonight's main course?" She chuckled, putting a hand on his shoulder and lightly pushing him to his knees. "No need to blame my brother dear, this plan of his was too complicated. I told him that an hour ago, right before I killed him. I always did want to be an only child anyway. But what to do with you?"

Derrick felt the painful tightening in his chest, felt the air squeezing out of his lungs as she stared at him, her perfect white teeth gleaming in a seductive smile as he began to flail on the floor. "P-Please..."

Was that it then? His last word? He didn't think he could draw breath for another, not that begging was likely to sway her. His vision began to grey into nothing, the edges fading along with his awareness. Dying....And then it stopped. Sudden inexplicable relief. All he could hear was his own gasping wheeze as he fought to return air to his lungs.

"Get off the floor, you look like a dying fish." The kid leather of Italian pumps accented each word with a soft kick. "Take care of that social worker tonight, she annoys me. I need to consider what to do with my extra house guest, I never intended to have both of the brats here. Meanwhile, have Bill or Steven keep an eye out for John Winchester. If one of his sons actually was in foster care as intended, we could have counted on that keeping him busy for a day or two. I'm certain he would have stayed in town long enough to go through the court process of getting the sure bet back before he started tracking the other boy. Now I'll have to reassess my time table. Consider yourself lucky that I hate babysitting. Otherwise, I would just kill you."

He'd pulled himself back to his feet as she spoke, heavily leaning on the mahogany dining table that commanded center stage in the room. "T-Thank you. I'm sorry, truly, I'll make sure you don't regret this. Thank you. I'll have Bill go take care of the social worker, and I'll see to the boys. Thank you."

"Oh, stop brown nosing. It bores me. Derrick, see that you don't take too much of your embarrassment about tonight out on the little tykes. I do need at least the one."

"Yes ma'am."


	5. Chapter 5

Chap 4

.

"Bill, get over here!" Derrick bellowed as he came down the curved stone stair, the opulence of the home above giving way to much rougher underground levels.

"Whaddya want!? You'll scare a man half to death hollering like that this time of night."

"I'm not too worried about that at the moment. We've got a problem with Abigail. How long have you worked for her?"

"A while before you, why?" Bill shrugged a shoulder, the look in his eyes a card short of a full deck.

"Remember last week when we were planning this whole fiasco? You told me Abigail had some crazy idea that she was a witch?" Derrick stared at Bill, almost daring him to deny it.

"I remember. Also remember you saying you didn't care if she was Tinkerbelle."

"I'd be okay with her being Tinkerbelle, actually. What if.." Derrick rushed his next words out as if the degree of insanity could be tapered by brevity. "Whatifsheisawitchforreal?"

"Uhh... What?"

"I said, what if she is a witch for real?"

"How much did you drink tonight?" Bill raised his eyebrows with a degree of alarm.

"Oh right, cause there are so many bars in the child welfare office. Did you forget I spent my evening with county social services? I am not drunk. Seriously, have you seen her kill anyone?"

"She's killed several people I can think of. So? Not like you haven't."

"I don't care that she's a murderer, I asked if you _saw_ it. She nearly killed me tonight, from across the room. By smiling at me."

"Yep, you so found a drink somewhere along the line. By smilling at you, heh? Tell you what, I'll remember not to tell her any good jokes and the world will be a safer place. Makes me all warm and fuzzy just thinking about it."

"Smart ass. I know what happened to me. You can believe it or not."

"That'd be not. Is that what you woke me up for?"

"No. Abigail wants that social worker dead, said she was annoying. I told her you'd handle it."

"See, that's the Abigail I know and love. As long as she's not going to hocus-pocus her dead, that is." Bill picked a glock up off the wooden table, whistling under his breath as he started up the stair. "Back soon, have fun with the small fry."

Bill met Abigail at the top of the staircase, every trace of his usual stupified expression gone.

"You put the fear of God into Derrick, love." He laughed as she wrapped herself around him, fierce kiss bring a drop of blood to his lips.

"Not God, William, although he probably doesn't have the sense to fear Him either." She shuddered at his touch, closing her eyes at moment before stepping back and dropping her hands to her side. "It's been too long, my love. Oohh, not now. Go take care of Karen, I have to revise my plan a bit now that we have a spare guest. Derrick will find out sooner or later, but let's aim for later." Her sigh spoke volumes in unfulfilled suggestion that certainly didn't involve anyone outside the two of them.

"Anything you want, Abby, as always."

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John locked the guns he'd selected in the trunk, relunctantly entering the police station with Pastor Jim on his heels.

"Mr. Winchester, you have to understand that this is a highly unusual situation. Until we are certain what happened, we have to treat all three of them as missing persons rather than assuming that Mr. Weaver has done anything to your boys."

John stared at the officer in front of him, compiling a mental list. _Top ten reasons not to start a fist fight in an actual police station_. Unfortunately, the more the man talked, the more trouble he was having with the list. At the moment he couldn't get past three.

"So I'm supposed to go home and wait on you to call me when you dredge their bodies out of some lake six months from now?!? How could you hand them over to someone who doesn't even live in his own house? There are no upstanding good parent reasons for that. I expect everyone who's ass is holding a seat down around here to find my boys. Now!"

"Sir, please. I understand you're distraught, but this is not going to help. Let us do our job. As soon as I have information, you'll have it."

_Pretty much stuck at two on that list now._ John handed over the number for his newly replaced phone. "At least we agree this is not helping. I'll be out looking for my sons."

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Karen Winter's house was all the confirmation the hunters needed that this wasn't all some record keeping nightmare on the part of the county. The bullet hole in her forehead would have clarified the matter all on its own, even without the opened chest and blood smeared throughout the room.

"Heart there, Jim?" John's question was hushed as he tried and failed to see a pattern in the blood smears.

"Yeah, it's here. Part of the liver's gone though."

"Liver? What on earth good is a liver? Spell work?"

"Maybe so. The police will probably want to talk to Karen again, too. Let's get out of here before they show up."

"Yeah, nothing she's gonna tell us at this point."

By mid-morning John was alone in the impala, retracing everywhere Sam and Dean might have been the day before, scouring for any clue as to what happened. It wasn't enough to stop the merry-go-round of thoughts in his head. _Someone has our boys, Mary. I'm so sorry. You wouldn't have wanted this life for them, I know that. Don't quite know when this life became inevitable, just know it is. All the good in the world, I thought it left that night with you, but you left part of it here, with me, didn't you? You left me the boys. I'll get 'em back, Mary, I swear. I'll bring our boys home. Hang on for me Sammy, Dean. Dad's coming. Promise._

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Dean was certain he'd been awake once in the backseat of the car after the fight at the rest stop. Unless of course this whole thing was one intensely bad dream. Yeah, that must be it. Admittedly, nightmare production was the one area where Sam could out do him, but he'd been known to have the occasional doozy. Ok, now would be a good time to wake up.

Waking up was requiring a strange amount of effort. Almost as if, well, as if a big man had kicked him in the side of the head. Crap. Not a dream then. Dean tried to remember his dad's advice on this situation. _There's some protection in everyone thinking you're out, so don't open your eyes or say anything until you're fairly certain you can move and can tell if anyone's there._ Somehow he didn't think that came up in most father-son lectures, but that didn't make it bad advice. So, time to take inventory. Dean was laying on his back, hands underneath him. His wrists were stuck, but to each other, not anything else. They wouldn't even twist against each other. Lovely, it was duct tape holding them then. No motion around him, so he wasn't still in the car. He cautiously flexed his fingers. Felt like canvas fabric. Couch? No, too flat. A bed then, or more likely a cot as the padding felt thin. A little cold, but no air was moving, so indoors not out. There was something burning, candles, maybe? The scent didn't overpower a stale stench that permeated the place. Someone else was breathing, deep and regular. Asleep. Dean cracked his eyes a hair.

Whatever he was laying on, it was on the floor. A thin cot mattress still seemed most likely. That, however, was no longer of much interest. The three rough stone walls of the room and iron bars across the front end barely registered. Outside of those doors there was a blue arm chair. The overly padded back curled around its slumbering occupants. Derrick Weaver sat dozing, his arms wrapped around a sleeping Sam nestled in his lap.

"Let him go." Dean decided he may as well see how this was going to go.

"Oh ho, you're awake again. Good, it's morning anyway. Let him go? The way it looks to me, he's on the outside of the bars and you're the one trapped, boy." Derrick brushed Sam's hair back from his eyes, idly resting his chin on the top of Sam's head as he twisted a loose strand around his fingers. Sam continued to sleep.

"What'd you do to him!?" Dean had rolled up to his feet and was now standing against the cell bars, pushing for every inch to close the gap between himself and his brother.

"Hmm... _I_ didn't yell at him to run off through the woods. This isn't my fault Dean, it's yours. Still, if you want him with you, I don't see the harm for now." Derrick shifted Sam off his lap and into the chair behind him as he stood. "Turn around and I'll get your hands."

Dean turned, suspicious on general principle, but well aware that Derrick had already had ample opportunity to hurt them both. He felt a pocket knife nick the tape between his hands.

"It shouldn't take you more than ten or fifteen minutes to break it loose from there. Enough time for me to open and close this door again." Derrick rummaged in a small bag at the foot of the chair, hand emerging with a syringe. He pushed Sam's head to the side, finger stroking a vein in his neck.

"NO! Get away from him!"

"What? You think he's too old for naps? I have to admit, drugging him's worth it just to watch your face right now." The needle found its way into Sam's neck, disgorging its contents as a horrified Dean watched. Derrick scooped Sam into his arms, balancing him against a shoulder as he unlocked the bolt with the arm beneath the child's knees. As soon as it was open, he dropped Sam onto the filthy floor and slammed the bars closed again. With that he turned and left, taking the candle sconce and it's feeble light with him.

Dean thumped to his knees beside Sam, trying to quiet his own quickening breathing as he leaned over Sam's face. Relief flooded through him as he felt a puff of breath against his neck in the darkness.

"Keep breathing for me little brother, gonna take care of you. I need my hands for that, give me just one minute, ok?" Dean fingered the cut notch in the tape, lining it up with the edge of one of the iron bars. Fortunately, they were a flat grille work pattern, not round, so this worked fairly well. Derrick's estimate of ten minutes hadn't accounted for being scared your seven year old sibling might die two feet away from you in a pitch black cell. Dean was loose in two.

"Sammy? You just sleepin' Sam? Cause I could use some company here. Please?"

Sam's breathing was slow and even, but no amount of poking, prodding, or pinching got the least response. Dean checked the pulse in his neck for the thousandth time, concluded yet again that it was fine. He pulled Sam over onto the mattress, settling his own back against the wall and Sam's against his chest.

He wasn't sure how much time had passed when a flicker of light became visible, coming closer with the clicking of a lady's shoe and the heavier footfalls of a man.

"Derrick left you in the dark, I see. Or rather I don't, but I can fix that."

Dean squinted at the candle shadows, then squeezed his eyes shut as she lit three large torches set into sconces on the wall. Only her clothes convinced him they hadn't fallen into the past. The build me a dungeon and boil people in oil past. Course, the three inch heels and the pager on her belt argued against that.

"Dean, I'm Abigail Williams. I'm an, ah, acquaintance of your father. Welcome to my home. Forgive the accomodations, but as I said, I know your father. A bit primitive down here in the basement, but what can I say, it reminds me of my girlhood days. Sam still asleep? Gives us a chance to talk amongst ourselves, then. Good. Derrick brought you both here and I hadn't planned for that. I don't care for unexpected guests and I only need one of you, so I'm afraid I'll have to have Derrick rectify that little mistake." She idly examined her manicure as the implications of that permeated the room.

Dean's mind raced for the best way to reply. On the one hand, whatever she wanted Sam for couldn't be good, but if she was planning on letting Derrick kill him as unnecessary, maybe being the one she wanted was better. Maybe it would buy Dad time to find Sammy. _Please Dad.... _Dean always viewed Sam as special, always assumed he was the one with value. It wasn't a great time for other people to realize it, though. Unless people wasn't an accurate term....

"I don't know what you want with Sammy, but you can't have him. Dad will find us."

She laughed, raising the hair on Dean's neck. He couldn't have put a finger on how, but he knew then. Not human. Witch.

"Oh Dean, that's sweet. Protecting little Sammy. Sadly for you, he was never what I wanted. First born son of a hunter, Dean. All I need is you."

A/N - Hello all. Thanks for reading and reviews would make my day - just a thought, lol. Dean's gotten himself in quite the fix and I don't think Abigail will make it easy to get out.... Oh, and I was reading reviews for another story with Dean at a similar age and someone was put off by the cell phones, as they certainly were uncommon at that time and the ones that did exist would have been hard pressed to fit in a pocket. No one has mentioned it here, but obviously I've indulged in the same history bending, chalk it up to artisitc license.


	6. Chapter 6

Chap 5

"Anything yet, John?"

John Winchester stared at the phone, wondering if all that church organ music had finally reverberated Pastor Jim's brain out of his skull.

"No, I don't have anything yet! If I knew where they were, I sure as hell wouldn't be here yaking on the phone. I've been everywhere the boys ever go, talked to every teacher and half the kids in that school. Nobody saw anything. I also showed the county's photo of Derrick Weaver to everyone in the neighborhood of his supposed house. They all agree Derrick Weaver used to live there. Nice respectable gentleman taking in all those wayward boys."

"Any comments from the neighbors on how those boys turned out?" Jim was trying to sound out how much John already knew.

"It seems he only took short term placements. Damn convenient. How'd you make out researching the good Derrick?"

Jim cleared his throat. It was just as well that they were talking on the telephone as he didn't particularly relish poking holes in John's world twice in less than forty eight hours. Kind of like poking a grizzly bear with a short stick. "Respectable gentleman wasn't exactly the term that came up. How he hid it here, I don't know, but I contacted a few other states. We, ah, we need to find 'em John. Right now."

"What are you trying not to say?"

"Drive here first; I'll make some more calls, and we'll organize a search."

"Talk to me, dammit!" Some part of John was vaguely aware he was taking out his frustration on his friend, but he didn't care. The motel currently serving as the Winchester home was only an hour from Blue Earth. _If Murphy had only made it to the hospital last night..... No, that's not fair to him, he was out on a hunt, same as me....least he answered his phone...._

"No." Not the easiest word to spit out at John, but he needed to calm down. "Cursing and impatience aren't going to bring Sam and Dean home. I'll see you in an hour."

John pulled in forty minutes later, storming into the small parsonage without knocking. Jim Murphy sat at his kitchen table, US map spread and sharpie in hand, connecting various cities with blue lines of ink.

"What's this?"

Jim ran a hand over his face in a manuever that oddly reminded John of his older son. "Places where Derrick Weaver has been a foster parent in the last 10 years are circled in red, blue arrows are the chronological path. Yellow circles are towns where a social worker involved in one of his cases either went missing or turned up dead."

John turned a chair backwards, sitting heavily before tapping his forehead on the ladder back. "Any where boys turned up missing or dead?"

Jim heaved a sigh, put a hand on his friend's shoulder. "The green circles. Missing, not dead, except for that one." He tapped a town in Michigan.

The silence stretched a moment, John almost visibly shoving his anger inside before raising his head. When he spoke again the voice and face were hollow. "I can't lose my boys, Jim. I can't."

"I know. Look, you're the best tracker around. Take a step back from this, see it as another hunt. We'll find them." He pushed the stack of newspaper articles across the table.

"A hunt._ Hunt_ my sons?"

"No, hunt Derrick Weaver." Jim voice was sharper that he intended. True he didn't want John so angry that he was reckless, but defeated wasn't going to work any better.

The other man leaned back, weighing the idea. "That I can do."

Jim returned with coffee, reluctant to disturb John as he sorted the dwindling pile of newsprint.

"Pattern shifted a year and a half ago and then again four months ago." John tapped his fingers on orange dates that had now joined the kaledioscope on the map. Up until the first shift he moved about once a year, and all the boys remained accounted for. Abuse allegations flitted around, he was always long gone before anything could be substantiated. After the shift a few boys started to go missing, sometimes labelled as run aways, but they were pretty young for that. Mostly Sammy's age. That's when the social worker issue started too. Interestingly, his bank account suddenly took a major upswing at the same time, new deposits match up with boys that never made it back to the county. Four months ago, he abandons his house and the account goes inactive. Sam and Dean are the first children he's applied for since then."

"The missing boys, you're thinking he sold them?"

John's eyes were grim. "Yeah. Derrick Weaver's taken to brokering little boys."

"Dear Lord."

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Dean stared at Abigail, pulled Sam in tighter against his chest.

"Me? You need me!?" _Shit.....Now what do I do?..._ Dean mustered up his best grin. "Doesn't everybody, doll? For arguments sake, though, ah, what for?"

"Nothing all that exotic, I fear. You know what I am, Dean?" She entered the cell and knelt in front of him, a hand running through his hair before coming it came to rest on his cheek.

"Aside from a really crappy foster parent?" He gestured at the iron bars. "Yeah, I know what you are, witch."

She clapped her hands in mock delight. "Very good, Dean. Winchester instincts have alway impressed me. As for my parenting skills, I've never really tried. I could give it a go, I suppose. Always heard they're sweetest when they're asleep." The grey eyes roamed over Sam.

Dean couldn't quite hear what she muttered under her breath, but the end result was plain enough. As soon as he exhaled, his ribs simply refused to expand again. He couldn't draw another breath, couldn't speak to protest when she pried his increasingly numb fingers loose from Sam's arms and scooped him from Dean's lap. Instinct flung Dean forward onto his hands and knees, head hung forward as he struggled to pant against a closed throat. He ground his fingernails against the stone floor as his vision tunneled in to the six inches directly in front of him, no amount of effort allowing him to track Sammy.

"Not going to give me any pointers on childcare, Dean? Bit irresponsible just turning your brother over to a stranger. He's already asleep, I don't have to read or sing to him or anything, right?" She handed Sam off to Bill behind her, reaching for a fistful of Dean's hair. She yanked his head up, surprised when he met her eyes with a fierce glare. The bright green irises only made the grey-blue tint of his face more obvious. "Not afraid yet? You should be. I can't comment as to parenting, but I am an exceptional witch. A witch with a spell to complete. And you... you are nothing more than a checkbox on the ingredients list. Carrots for my beef stew, that's all I need you for Dean, nothing more complicated than that."

She released her hold on his hair, a flick of her finger releasing his chest as well. Faint laughter escaped her lips as his forehead dropped to the floor in the midst of the desperate rasping breaths.

"What about this one, Abigail? I can take care of him." Bill hadn't spoken during the exchange, enjoying the ringside seat to her favorite trick.

"Hmm. Thank you, but no." She shrugged her slim shoulders. "Derrick made the mistake, he can fix it. Tomorrow morning though, I need him upstairs tonight. Leave the boy here for now. Oh, and Dean... make sure and enjoy your stay. It'll be short."

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"Derrick?" Bill found his cohort in the main foyer, arms loaded with expensive bags.

"What!?" Weaver's harrassed tone was evident.

"First off, what's your problem?" Bill rather found the precarious stack of cases funny.

"Oh, let's see. Maybe it's that I'm not a hotel porter. Or a pack mule either. I've been carrying luggage for the last three hours. Exactly how many of Abigail's friends did she invite to spend the weekend here? I've toted crud for eight so far, all of whom brought enough junk to stay for a month instead of three days. Two of them brought yappy little dogs and I swear one came with a pair of cats. Who on earth travels with cats! I'm absolutely phoning animal control if I see 'em in the halls."

"Of course you won't. I thought you were the one who was all spooked out by Abigail earlier? I'm still considering calling the guys with the butterfly nets if you start back up with that witch nonsense. Besides, I've seen the guest list, there are only four more expected arrivals. She wants you here tonight to make sure dinner goes smoothly and to supervise the catering staff. Come morning though, she expects you to take care of our extra guest downstairs, got it?"

"I'll be more that ready to kill someone by morning, the trick's going to be waiting that long. I didn't come to work for her to be a damned butler. I have years worth of other skills." Derrick pointed to his own index finger as if he was about to enumerate a list.

"Your other skills are what made you need her to stay out of jail, don't forget that. And you would be mighty cute in one of those tailcoats."

Derrick managed to get through the evening with a minimum of interaction with his boss's overdressed guests, preferring to direct the hired waitstaff from the kitchens in between trips downstairs to check on his young charges. Silk and taffeta rustled in the marble corridors, the muted jewel tones of the gowns reflected in the crystal stemware and leaded glass windows. The soft clinking of china and silver accompanied laughter and a string quartet, tuxedo clad waiters silently refilling glasses. It appeared to be the reunion of a very exclusive sorority, dripping cascades of sapphires circling an elegant neck here, glittering rubies dangling from a wrist there. Several smaller monarchies would have been jealous. Abigail appeared to be thoroughly in her element, queen bee of her own ball.

He supposed he ought to have been impressed, but the gathering actually struck him as odd, perhaps even ominous. The dozen older ladies ranged from forty to sixty and all clearly knew each other well. A younger woman seemed more tenative, almost deferential to the others. And what about yesterday? He was still suspicious that there just might be such a thing as witches. So how in heaven's name did he get stuck at a gathering of thirteen women?

When the evening finally wound down, he made a final trip to the basement, noting that while he heard the elder boy talking, there was still no response from the smaller one. Probably wouldn't wake up before morning with the amount of ativan he'd injected in him. Still, it was difficult to tell with kids that young. As tempting as it was to follow instructions and kill the kid come morning, the decadence of the evening had given him another idea. He might have had to go underground four months ago, but he could still reach his old contacts quickly. With that much money in the world, may as well redirect a little more of it his own way. He was angry enough at being turned into the staff of 'to the manor born' for the night to risk it and that little Winchester was a pretty child, should line his pockets nicely. If he couldn't resist strangling someone, there was always Bill.

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"What time do you think it is Sammy?" Dean had been talking to his still sleeping brother for hours, watching the slack face for any sign of awakening. "It was eleven pm when we left the hospital. Not sure how long it took to get here, but Derrick did say it was morning the first time he spoke to me. Then the witch came, I'm thinking that was afternoon. Derrick was up and down the stairs for a while after that, dosed you again his last trip." Dean cringed with that particular memory, he didn't seem to be able to keep anyone away from Sam today. The fact that he'd gotten a black eye trying didn't change a thing in his book. "I'm guessing that meant bedtime and it's middle of the night again now. Second night here then, so Dad's gonna be getting close by now. Morning, though, that may not go so well. Really need for you to wake up, because we might need a plan B, ok?"

Dean paced the confines of the cell, the single lit torch providing a limited view of the corridor. There was no evidence of any other type of lighting down here. He didn't see any doors and every one he'd heard enter came down stairs out of sight to his left. Not a promising situation to fight your way out of, even if you weren't eleven. There was no chance of doing it without Sam awake and able to run. He sat on the pallet again, giving his brother another soft shake.

"Sammy? Come on, you can do it. Sammy?" Crap, he'd been out more than twenty four hours now. "Sammy?"

"Ummmm-hmmmm."

"That's it Sammy. Open your eyes."

"Don't wanna get up Dean. Not goin' to school today, 'kay?" Sammy snugged in closer to Dean's knee.

"We're not at home, remember? Open your eyes."

Sam peered up at Dean through tousled bangs, studying the frown before sweeping his eyes over the stone walls and finally the bars separating them from the hallway. "Dean? The man... he caught me in the woods, didn't he?"

"Caught both of us Sammy." Dean put on a smile he didn't feel. "Look, he's not the only one here, but he normally comes down alone. Next time he does, we're gonna get out of here. I need for you to do exactly what I say, even if it means leaving me here."

"But, Dean!" Sam huffed out a lip in his very best indignant look.

"Even if Sam! You can always send Dad for me, less work if he only has to bail one of us out anyway. You know how to find him if you're alone, he taught us that. I intend to stay with you if I can, but you do everything I say, got it?"

"Got it." Sam sat up unsteadily, again looking around. "I'm thirsty."

"I know, me too. There isn't anything kiddo, I'm sorry." Dean draped an arm around his brother, pulling him into his shoulder. "I'll find us something soon as I can."

"Dean?" His voice already sounded drowsy again.

"Yeah?"

"You're worried."

"Course I'm not worried. We'll get out of here in the morning, ok?"

"I can tell when you're worried. Can tell with Dad, too. Who else is here?" Sam's question trembled a little.

"A witch Sammy." Why on earth couldn't he lie to the kid? Never had any trouble doling out the blarney to anyone else. "Doesn't change anything, we'll get out."

Dean listened as Sam's breathing deepened again. Maybe he should have let him sleep. No matter what he'd said, Dean wasn't at all sure he could get Sam out of here before someone came for him in the morning. Someone that was supposed to kill him.

.

A/N - So we're back to that pretty please review phase,lol. Seriously, they do make my day.

For anyone who's uncomfortable with the implication of what Derrick Weaver does for a living with those boys - I need him to be clearly repulsive in this story, and Jim has him correctly pegged, but it's gonna stay in the land of implication. There is no sexually descriptive content in this story. Thought I'd let you know as that's something a lot of us, including me, don't want to see described with the character ages in this fic.


	7. Chapter 7

Chap

"Jim? Wake up. Your phone's ringing... Hey! Jim, you want me to get that?" John Winchester wearily rubbed fatigue from his eyes, then reached across the table to pick up the sleeping pastor's phone. Couldn't blame the man for drifting off in his chair; this was the start of the third day they'd been awake. No sense pointing out that John had been the one exhausted from a long hunt before this even began.

"Winchester."

"Shuman. I'm a friend of Murphy's. He called me last night; I think I found what you're lookin' for. This Weaver's been doing his own calling around, I've got a number. You got a piece of paper?"

"Yeah, shoot." John quickly scribbled a number and address, not asking Jim's friend how he got his information. Their world didn't work that way. Dawn sent its first tendrils into the sky as the two hunters piled into the impala, laws of physics being rewritten as John raced for a small town a few states away.

"Something still doesn't fit, Jim. The files we looked at... he never requested a specific child before. And I 'd being willing to bet he's the one who kicked Sammy in the first place. Since I seriously doubt he's got a beef with the boys, it has to be with me. I just can't place him. The name, his face, totally unfamiliar. There has to be something..." John was unconsciously running a hand over his beard, talking far more to himself than his passenger. He appreciated the pastor's help, especially as the man was one of the few all three Winchesters called friend, but rage was winning out over pastor appropriate behavior right now. Course, Jim looked more than a little angry himself.

"Wait, look at the map for Conner's Landing again." John kept talking as he heard Jim refolding the map to their intended destination. "Check about ten miles south. Boman, UT, right? Four months ago, Derrick Weaver changed his behavior and now he's practically in Bowman."

"You think he was there four months ago?" Jim wasn't quite following this train of thought.

"No idea, but I was. That last check he deposited, that's what I overlooked. I was focused on recognizing something about Weaver. Parrish Industries in Bowman signed his last pay day four months ago exactly. And precisely four months ago I was in the same town hunting a witch. A witch named Betty Parrish. I was right, this is about me."

"Still not your fault, John."

"No? Whose then? Yours? Dean's? The mailman's? Not mine, of course, because every parent gets involved with monsters that turn around and steal their children, or worse. I've gotta make this right."

"We will; you've got to have a little faith in that." The pastor resisted an urge to put a hand on his friend's shoulder. It might comfort his parishoners, but John wouldn't welcome the gesture, not when he was busy with recrimainations.

"You know I don't. Not since Mary..."

Jim gave a resigned sigh. "So you drive and I'll pray and have faith for both of us."

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Derrick woke around nine, the three short hours of sleep inadequate, but it had taken most of the night to soldify his plans. As he suspected, his old friends were more than happy to work together again, as long as there was a percentage in it. Abigail didn't need to know.

He started down the stone stair, aware of her presence in the hall ahead of him.

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The lighting faded as the torch burned down, yet Dean could feel morning encroaching on them, feel the anxieties tumbling about in his head ratchet up another notch. _Could really use some help here, Dad. I don't see a way out of this. Gonna try though. I have to for Sammy. What am I supposed to tell him? Derrick's supposed to kill you?. What can I say that will make him understand he absolutely has to get away and not scare him so much that he can't? Maybe you could hurry Dad? Please?_

"Rise and shine, little brother, wake up. Sammy? Come on." Dean's fingers tapped on Sam's shoulder.

Sam startled awake, eyes skittish until they settled on Dean. "Morning again?"

"I think so. Look, Sam, start walking around, stretch your legs out. If the chance to run comes up, we want to be able to take it."

Sam started to protest since the last time Dean told him to run he hadn't followed, but Dean was already pacing, stomping cold numbed feet every fourth or fifth stride. In truth, he was probable stiffer than Sam, having been on the more recent receiving end of the kicks and punches. Sam propped a foot against the wall, leaning in to stretch out hamstrings.

Dean gave an approving nod. "Listen, ok? Whoever comes down here this morning, you have got to get out that door."

"You told me that last night, Dean."

"I know, just thinkin' out loud. Still, I say go, you go, promise?"

"Promise. Dean?"

"Yeah, Sammy?"

"I think ... I think I'm a scared." He dropped his eyes, embarrassed.

Dean remembered the speech he'd gotten from their dad when he'd said the same thing. Not the one most people would have expected from John, but one Dean knew he'd always remember. Time Sam heard it. "Want to know a secret?"

"What Dean?"

"I'm a little scared, too. It doesn't make you weak to be scared; you just can't let whatever you're fighting know. Being a little scared keeps you alert, makes you notice things that could hurt you. Never being afraid means you're either unobservant or stupid, and probably both. Don't be ashamed of being scared Sammy, use it to your advantage."

"But you're always brave..." Sam sounded tentative.

Dean smiled at his little brother, shifting his voice from serious to swagger. "Of course, I'm awesome! And so are you. Bravery isn't about being fearless, it's about getting your job done anyway. Right now, your job is to get out of here, make sure Derrick doesn't hurt you, and find Dad. Whatever it takes, ok? Kick, bite, scratch... what's fair and right and wrong don't really apply on this one. I plan on going with you, but if I don't, tell Dad everything you can remember about this place and the witch. He'll find me." _And sometimes being brave is about lying to your little brother when there's no chance of getting both of us out._

"I don't even know her name, Dean."

"Huh, that's right, you were asleep. Abigail Williams."

"Ooooh, someone calling me? So glad to know I'm popular with the miniature hunter set." The soft feminine voice belied the cold stare as she stopped on the other side of the bars.

Dean suppressed a groan. He had hoped Derrick would come down the stair alone, or at least with someone who wasn't a witch, and instead he was getting just the witch. Getting Sammy free just got a lot harder. "Popular ain't what comes to mind, bitch."

"Ah, Dean. Isn't there some sort of rule that you have to at least be a teenager to have a mouth like that? Your Dad's a foul mouthed one, too. Now your great grandfather, there was a Winchester with some manners." She gave an almost lovelorn sigh.

"Great grandfather? How old are you?" The words slipped out before Dean could stop them. _Never listen to some supernatural thing lie. _

"Definitely no manners to ask a lady that. Still, no harm in telling the soon to be dead. Let's say I was born after the Spanish Inquisition and before the Mayflower. Your Dad didn't explain me to you, did he? In fact, I don't think he even knows. Everything on heaven and earth is a balance Dean. Heaven and Hell, angels and demons, witches and hunters. Each side needs the other to exist."

"My Dad hunts a lot more than witches."

"Samuel. Nice to hear your voice at last. Of course he does, forgive me if everything doesn't fit in one sentence. Tell me Sam, what do you know about fairies or dragons or giants?"

"They're not real." Sam had stepped forward as he started to talk to her and startled slightly as Dean put a hand on his torso, making sure he stayed between them.

"Very good, they're not real, or not anymore." She arched an amused eyebrow at Dean's effort. "How about werewolves or spirits?"

"Real, but most people don't think so."

"Right again. John did teach you something. The thing is, most people did believe in all those things once. Now, there aren't as many of us and they don't have to."

Dean gave a snort. "More demons than there ever were."

"Hmm, correct also. Someday it will come to just humans and demons, I think. Not sure if the heavens will help with that one or sit back and wait for the fallout. I meant the middle realm, creatures, witches, hunters. We're all dying out, families that have been tied together for centuries. Including mine and yours."

"We've got nothing to do with the likes of you."

"Believe what you want Dean, but I've killed the first born male Winchester every fourth generation for six centuries now. You don't really think those hunter instincts fell from the sky do you? Your family is as much as part of the supernatural balance as I am. I'm sure a good genealogy class would prove it to you, but it's sort of your turn and I'm short on time."

"Abigail? You down there?" Derrick's voice bellowed from the middle of the stairwell.

"I am. Discussing old, ah, acquaintances. But you have an appointment with Samuel, I believe?"

Dean tensed, slipping closer to the door, pushing Sam to his right. He looked hard at his brother, message clearly on his face. _I'll block, you run._

Sam dipped a tiny nod, then silently mouthed something that took a minute to register with Dean. "I'm sorry for taking the skateboard."

Abigail stepped aside, remaining outside the cell as Derrick unlocked the bolt, handing her the keys as he entered.

"Come on, brat, time to go."

"No." Sam spoke at the same time as his brother.

"Get away from him!" Dean launched a kick at the man, wondering if the same trick could work twice.

Apparently not.

Derrick grabbed the rising foot, twisting it sideways and pulling up until Dean fell backwards, head connecting with the stone floor with a resounding thump.

He took advantage of the boy's momentary confusion, landing a kick of his own to roll Dean onto his stomach before dropping to knees. He knelt across Dean's lower back, grabbing his right hand and wrenching the arm behind him, smiling as the shoulder gave a squelching pop.

Dean shook his head, trying to clear his fogged vision. Unfortunately the only thing he could see from this angle was Abigail pushing the door closed. Sam couldn't run. He tried to buck the large man off, but only succeed in intensifying the pain in his shoulder. It wasn't dislocated...yet..

"Leave my brother alone!" Sam's voice rang from behind Derrick just as he pounced on his back, arms wrapping around the man's throat as his legs circled the waist in a bizarre version of a piggy back ride. Small teeth sank into an ear as short fingers tried to poke at eyes.

"Sonuva.." Derrick rocked backwards, trying to dislodge the smaller of the Winchesters, shifting his weight onto Dean's arm so he could use own hands to pry Sam loose. "You just gonna watch, Abigail?!?"

Her tone alone remained soft and unconcerned. "Well, it is quite entertaining..."

Derrick was on his own with the boys. He grabbed a fistful of brown hair, tugging Sam's head back enough to free his ear, although he was fairly sure a layer of skin went with the teeth. Little rat. He stood rapidly, leaning backward into the wall just enough to feel the kid go limp. After all, he didn't want to actually kill him, no matter what Abigail, or Dean for that matter, might think. As soon as he felt the little limbs untwist from his torso he moved forward, letting a breathless Sam slide to the floor.

Dean had pushed himself to hands and knees, or hand and knees more accurately as he held the right arm tightly against his body, panting as nausea let him know just how hard he'd knocked his head. Abigail was unlocking the door again, Dean knew this was his last chance to save Sam. He could see his brother struggling to his stand, mimicking Dean's own effort to pull in a lungful of air. He pushed to his feet, ignoring the throbbing in his head and shoulder, waiting until Derrick half turned to pluck Sam from the floor. Dean narrowed his eyes at the three Derrick's he could almost see and threw all of his eleven year old body into a left handed punch at the middle one.

...And missed.

The momentum of the swing carried him back to the floor, nausea flaring again as he jarred the shoulder. Derrick had swerved momentarily to dodge him, but quickly refocused on grabbing Sam, drawing him back into his arms as he had in the woods. One arm circled the boy's waist, the other pinned down flailing limbs as he backed out of the cell.

"Dean!!!" Sam called out frantically for his brother.

"Dean, don't let him take me! Dean!!! Please help me!?! No! I'm not going! No, no please. Help!! Dean!!"

Dean lifted his dazed face from the floor just in time to see Sam's foot slide loose from where he'd hooked it around the bars of the door, the wrenching pleas fading as Weaver carried his brother away . His own voice was nothing more than a desperate whisper. "S-Saaaammmy?"

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A/N - This wasn't the original end to this chapter, but I felt the next 1000 words deserved some expansion on Sam's view, so I'm cutting it off here until tomorrow. Next chap primarily Sam, then we'll get back to Dean's predicament. As a reminder, I don't do deathfic and there is no explicit content in this story.

Didn't hear a lot from everybody over the last chapter or two - making me nervous, here. So, drop me a line, please? Thanks so much for reading and I'll be updating tomorrow.


	8. Chapter 8

A/N – this was originally a 500 word section to end Chap 6, but I thought it deserved a little expansion, so I converted it into its own segment. That makes it a little shorter than some of the others, but hopefully that won't annoy anyone. There are two sections to this chapter, basically from Derrick's view and then the same scene from Sam's perspective. I don't generally repeat the same time frame, but for just this once I decided to indulge in it.

Chapter 7

Abigail fortunately left a pair of boats in the water year around, a nice cruiser and smaller bass boat, both fueled and ready to go. Derrick supposed they weren't necessarily for the staff to take whenever they pleased, but then again neither was the kid bundled at his feet. He'd be back before they could miss him, with a nice wad of cash for his trouble. Amazing what a few snapshots could bring you.

He cut the motor and drifted into the dock slip thirty minutes later, carefully scouring the area on the shore. Just one car there, as he expected. There was no cover anywhere near here, which was precisely why he'd chosen it for this morning's little gathering. He checked the floorboard of the boat again. The unmoving child might have been sleeping behind the blindfold that hid golden hazel eyes, but an uneven breathing pattern betrayed the act... Didn't matter. There was enough duct tape around those thin wrists and ankles that this one wouldn't be biting anyone else. He had slapped a strip across that little mouth, too. Turns out the kid could yell loud enough to wake the dead.

Derrick stepped onto the dock, gun drawn as he approached the waiting grey sedan. The driver got out, leaving the door open as he'd been instructed and walked to the rear, opening the trunk before pacing off the requested forty feet from the car. Derrick nodded at him, and then circled the car to satisfy himself that no one else was there, before regarding the other man more closely. He walked across to him, rapidly patting the older man down for weapons before backing off a number of feet. Medium height and slim with a clean shaven angular face, he looked misleadingly respectable. The stranger returned to the bag he'd left behind him.

"Set the money down and back up." Derrick repeated the instructions they'd discussed over the phone.

His buyer did as requested, watching as Derrick opened the clear plastic bag and perused the contents. A smile crossed his bearded features as he thumbed through the crisp bills, the rustling sound and smell of the ink igniting an excitement he squashed. Money always had that effect on him, but the time for celebrating was later. Besides, how much celebrating could he really do without keeping the kid? Oh well, least the jerk that brought the money would be happy. He returned to the boat empty handed, lifting Sam into his arms and re-approaching the cash. He settled the child on the ground about fifteen feet away from the sack.

"We agreed?" Derrick once again addressed the other man.

The sedan's driver walked to the boy, glancing only briefly at Derrick's once again well aimed gun. "Possibly. You examined your prize; I'd like the same opportunity."

He knelt, putting his fingers against Sam's neck, feeling the steady pulse there. The blindfold and tape gag marred an inspection of the young face, but he had no doubt it matched the photos he'd been shown earlier. He ran a quick hand over denim clad legs and bare torso without finding any breaks, then rolled the boy onto his stomach. The bound hands appeared a little ragged, the fingernails torn and possibly containing a few bits of Weaver's hide. He traced a finger down the knobs of the exposed spine, hurriedly assuring himself that no serious injury lurked there before pulling his hand back at the child's shudder. He lifted the small form from the dirt, balancing the body over his shoulder as he nodded. "Seems healthy enough. We're agreed."

Derrick grabbed his cash, stepping backward to the boat to keep a bead on the other pair as long as possible. Seeing the thin man roll the boy into his trunk and slam the lid, he hopped in and cast off back across the lake.

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Sam had twisted and fought as long as he could, remembering Dean's words. Scratch, claw, bite; anything was fair game here. Sadly, Derrick was just so much bigger than he was that in the end it hadn't taken long for him to end up with his hands taped behind him, ankles tightly wrapped together. The blindfold didn't matter that much to him; he was pretty sure he didn't want to see whatever was going to happen next. Abigail had said soon to be dead. _Wonder how soon? Dean… Dean couldn't get up, couldn't help me. He's hurt bad if he didn't help me… needs Dad. I was supposed to get to Dad. Dean has to be ok… he has to….I don't wanna die…_

He felt the boat ride, the gentle rolling kicking up to a pace that left him seasick, fear egging the nausea on. He kept expecting Derrick to pitch him out into the water, kept pulling in deep fearful breaths that even his seven year old mind knew would buy a few seconds at best once he sank. When the engine finally stilled and he felt the hated hands pick him up, he knew that it was about to happen. He could already imagine the water closing over him and stealing his life away_. Oh no. No! Please no. Help! I need help! Dean?!_

He knew Derrick felt his breathing quicken, felt the sweat he couldn't help trickle down his back. _Dean said not to be embarrassed if I was scared. Wonder how he feels about flat out petrified? Come on Sam, it'll be over soon. I'm sorry Dean. Sorry Dad. I tried. I'm sorry..._

"Panicking boy?" Derrick's rasped query didn't surprise Sam as much as the feel of being carried over solid ground. "I'm not going to kill you if that's what your brother told you. Heck of thing to say, don't you think? Although trust me, this'll be worse." Derrick's stifled laugh stole the last of the courage Sam was clinging to.

He heard Derrick's footsteps retreat as he lay on the ground, then another, lighter step approached and unfamiliar hands roamed over him, rolling him over to prod his spine. _No! Don't touch me. I want Dean…._

The strange hands didn't hurt him, but Sam was too afraid to notice that as he was picked up again. The surface he landed on this time was artificial, rough carpet rubbing against his skin. He heard the unmistakable closing of a car trunk, the start of an engine as his current prison moved. Only a few minutes later the car stopped, pulled off the road to the sound of crunching gravel. Then the newer set of hands was grabbing at him once more. His back barely grazed the lip of the trunk as he was lifted, then once more settled on the ground outside the car, leaning against the body of a third man. _No! Let me go! Let me go! No! Help me… Let me go… letmego..letmego..letmego…letmegoletmegoletmegoletmegoooo….._

Sam's harsh panting was far too incoherent to feel the chest he leaned on tremble. Two pairs of hands plucked at him now and he knew it was hopeless. He wasn't going to get loose and do what Dean had asked, wasn't going to find their Dad. His chance was over. The desperation for freedom collapsed into a litany of_ I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm s-ssorry _so loud in his head that he couldn't hear the hitched sob as a rough, callused paw fumbled to undo the blindfold. Finally the man's choked whispers seeped into his terrified mind as the cloth and tape finally fell away.

"I gotcha Sammy, I gotcha. Shhh, you're ok. I gotcha. Shhhh. I gotcha. Shhhh....." The words kept time with the rocking motion of the strong arms surrounding him, familiarity slowly sinking in. "I gotcha. Shhh, Sammy, you're ok, I gotcha……."

Sam blinked into the sunlight, stunned at the tearful face above him. "Dad???"

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Well, there it is for better or worse, lol. Thank you to everyone who read and reviewed, the input for the last chapter was really quite helpful. Please let me know what you think and thanks again.

'


	9. Chapter 9

Chap 8

The forty minutes John had spent waiting for the grey sedan to return had been some of the longest of his life. He had been fairly certain Derrick Williams would have no reason to recognize him, but that wasn't enough to risk Sam's life. So it had been Jim Murphy that had gone to meet Derrick and collect Sam, while John sat in the impala, hands literally quivering while waiting to hold his youngest son.

Pastor Jim parked behind the impala, instantly out of the car John had appropriated. John meanwhile left the impala and sank to the ground, reaching for the bound bundle the pastor was extracting from the sedan.

"You put my baby in the trunk...." John's comment barely reached his old friend's ears.

"I didn't think getting pulled over with him like this was the best idea, John." The pastor settled Sam into his father's arms, aware the other man no longer heard him.

"I gotcha Sammy, I gotcha. Shhh. It's okay. Shhh. I gotcha." John desperately fumbled with the blindfold over Sam's eyes, finally tugging it and the duct tape over his mouth free.

"Dad???"

"Awwwh, Sammy. Thank God. Shhh. I gotcha." John rocked his son in the circle of his arms, sitting in the dirt beside a forsaken back road, planting a silent kiss on top of his head. He reluctantly let go of him with one hand just long enough to slip a knife from the sheath at his wrist, quickly slicing through the tape at wrist and ankles before gathering his child even further into his lap. _How could we possibly have come to this?_

Jim waited several minutes, watched as Sam snuck his arms around his father's neck and began to sob into his shoulder. After the first word to his dad, the boy hadn't spoken again. While this route was remote, there was no guarantee another car wouldn't come by. Time to get them moving.

"John?"

"John? Come on. Let's get him to the motel, get a real look at him. John?" The pastor extended a hand that went unseen. He finally tapped the elder Winchester on the shoulder, startling him into motion. Jim found himself holding the keys to the impala for the first time he could recall as John settled Sam in the backseat, prying the child's fingers loose from his neck to get him there.

Thirty minutes later John was kneeling beside the bed in the most recent of the endless string of cheap motels in his life. His youngest child occupied the bed in question, curled on his side and staring at his father. The tears had stopped somewhere in route, but not before John had shed a few of his own. Taking a deep breath, he lifted the edge of Sammy's shirt, grinding his teeth at the bootprint bruise still evident there. He shifted him enough to strip him out of soiled garments, looking for any other signs of injury. Aside from a few scattered marks across his shoulder blades, the kick John already knew about seemed to be it. He suddenly realized he was still holding that breath and let it out it. It didn't take much imagination to guess what could have happened in three days with Derrick Weaver. Blessedly Sam had no idea.

"Sammy, come on son. Sit up a little more, you need to get some water in. Sammy?" John held the cup for the first few sips, relieved when his son took it himself. Now for the hard part. "Sammy? I wish we could take this at your pace son, but I need to ask..."

Sam licked his cracked lips and interrupted his father. "Dean..."

"Yeah, Sammy, I need to know about Dean. Do you .... _please kid......_do you know where your brother is?"

"I.. I d-don't know where. A basement, in a big house I think. He's hurt, Dad. He.. He tried to fight with them so I could run away. I shouldn't have left him there, he wouldn't leave me..."

John closed his eyes at the word hurt, then schooled his features into what he hoped was reassuring. Dean was far more adult than a typical eleven year old, but no one was adult enough to be kidnapped, hurt, and alone. "None of this is your fault Sammy. You can help me, though, can help your brother. This house, is it Derrick's house?"

"No. I was asleep at first, but Dean said the witch was in charge. The other men work for her, I guess. Abigail Williams."

Hunting instincts were beginning to function again and John hadn't missed his son's hesitation on the word asleep, nor the subconscious reach of fingers for the side of the slim neck. He pushed Sam's shaggy hair aside and spotted the pin pricks he had overlooked initially. His son had been drugged. Shit. There was going to be hell to pay.

"A witch? Did you see her, Sammy?"

"Y-ye-yes sir. She's not like I thought. Kinda pretty, and rich maybe? She said... Dad she said she'd killed Winchesters before, and that it was Dean's turn. She can't g-get Dean, can she? What'd she mean before?"

John had no idea what the witch meant about before, but a pretty, upper class witch was sadly familiar. Betty Parris didn't fit the green warty nosed hag profile either. "No one is killing your brother, Sammy. You just gave me a lead." John scooped his keys off the nightstand, unnecessarily raising his voice to speak across the small room. "Jim, stay with Sam. I'm going after Dean."

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Dean lifted his throbbing head from the stone floor, trying to shake his memories into order. He was talking to Abigail, then fighting with Derrick, then…. _Oh no. No. No, no, no, no, no. Sammy….._

He let his forehead drop back to the cold floor. No real point in getting up.

He had no idea how long he'd been there when he became aware of the footsteps. The sharp click against the floor echoed throughout the hallways. Abigail, then. Unless Derrick and Bill had a thing for high heels at least.

"Dean. Get up, boy. Clean yourself up for dinner." Abigail sat a pan of water down on the floor next to his unmoving form. "Dean?" She turned him onto his side with her foot, pleased to see his purpled eyelids flicker. "Good, you are still in there. Afraid for a moment that Derrick had screwed up again and killed you. Shame about little Samuel, don't you think? He was never supposed to be here; that didn't leave me much choice. You, on the other hand I need upstairs for dinner tonight, so you can stop laying there like a lump and make yourself presentable."

She waited a few more minutes, regarding the bloodied child at her feet. Third day here and he looked awful. Maybe she should have had Derrick bring him some food and water, but it had seemed like such a waste. "I can tell you're awake, Dean. Now get up."

He answered without opening his eyes, voice hoarse. "Don't care for beef stew."

"So you are listening to me." She crooked a finger at him, lips curling into a smile when he lurched to his knees. "I _can _make you, Dean. Shall I take care of the rest or will you?"

Dean grunted as his body moved on its own, responding to her bidding. Guess smothering someone wasn't her only talent. "Leave me alone! I'll take care of myself."

The smile widened. "See that you do."

Dean sat on the floor, holding his head in his hands. Sammy was gone. Nothing mattered now. Nothing at all. The witch, whatever she had planned, none of it was important without Sammy to watch over. He still thought his dad would come, but that didn't matter either. Dean couldn't face him. Not when he'd failed the only thing John ever asked of him.

Which brought him back to cleaning up for dinner. What had Abigail said to him yesterday? Or maybe it was the day before that now. Carrots for the beef stew, just another check box on the ingredients list? Maybe if he just gave in and cleaned up, put on the neatly folded clothes at the end of the pallet, this would all come to an end. He shrugged out of his blood stiffened shirt and pulled the pan of water closer, grunting when icy cold met his fingertips. Figured. Unwanted survival instincts kicked in, a third of the water disappearing down his throat before he considered the layer of grime.

His teeth were chattering by the time he was reasonably clean, but he didn't particularly notice. _Sammy. Sammy's gone. Only a few more hours living without Sammy. Sorry Dad. I'm so sorry._ He pulled the black trousers on, mechanically fumbling his way into the starched white shirt and jacket. Under other circumstances, it would have struck him as ridiculous that he was putting on a tuxedo sized for an eleven year old boy in a witch's dungeon. As it was, it was just another thing on the doesn't matter list. _She's gonna kill me....Over soon, Dean. Over soon._

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Abigail yanked the silver handled brush through her tresses, venting frustration as she swatted a few errant strands from the peach silk of her robe. She spotted William reflected in an ornately carved mahogany mirror, but elected to ignore him as she continued her assault on her appearance.

"Abby." A throaty undertone conveyed far more than a mere name. "I doubt your hair is the source of all that much trouble, love. Besides, you're as beautiful as the first time I saw you, centuries ago. What are you worrying about?" He swept the locks in question aside, trailing intimate kisses down her neck.

She slipped away from him with an impatient sigh. "Mary Winchester."

"Hmm. Not the answer I expected." He resumed his kisses, shifting the robe to bare a shoulder. "Thought she was dead."

"That's the problem. She's dead and John's still head over heels in love with her. Derrick is such a fool!" She slammed the brush down on the dressing table hard enough to mar the polished wood.

"Love life I'm willing to discuss, but why theirs?" He slipped her robe the rest of the way to the floor, eyes raking over the cream flesh beneath as his kisses travelled lower.

"William! Do you not see the problem here? I'm assuming you'd rather not be dead in the next few months. Besides, to keep the coven powerful, I need to restore our number to thirteen. I can't complete either spell without killing Dean Winchester. And thanks to Derrick's blunder in bringing Sam here, the other Winchester heir is already dead."

"You wanted revenge on John for killing Betty, what better revenge than killing both boys?" He tried to no avail to lead her toward the elegantly curtained bed they shared.

"Idiot. I think playing 'stupid Bill' for the hired help is starting to affect your brain. I wouldn't have set you to spying on the others if I'd known your mind would go to mush. Of course the revenge is perfect, but three generations from now, I need to kill the next Winchester in the line. And there isn't going to be one."

William stopped his not so subtle flirting. "No cousins or what not? Not on their mother's side either?"

"None that hunt. Only hope now is for John to have another child and drag that child into the hunt. He still wears his wedding ring, William. It's not going to happen." Abigail pulled her robe back on and opened the mirrored closet to stare at her evening gowns.

"So what do we do?"

"We don't do anything. I finish this evening as originally intended, then get a little fun out of giving Dean's bones to John. Betty was always my favorite cousin, ever since that girlhood prank in Salem. I owe John for killing her. After that, I'm not sure."

"Abigail, three generations from now is a long time. We'll think of something. Now pick a dress and I'll go fetch the boy. I doubt he's seen a bowtie, much less tied one, likely to need some help."

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Dean had allowed the one named Bill to tie the white silk around his neck. Felt like a noose. The cufflinks had been a foreign object as well, but at least they hadn't brought any unbidden imagery to mind. For the first time since his arrival, Dean was led back up the stone stairs and out of the flickering torch light.

Nearly days without water had taken their toll and he found himself being helped up the stairs and into the marbled hallways above by Bill and Derrick. Every instinct told him to pull away from the older men, but those instincts weren't going to help anything now. _Doesn't matter. Sammy…_

The swirled grey and white tiles between his shuffling feet gave way to glossy polished black as the hall opened into a massive ballroom, the near end filled with polite laughter, cocktail bearing waiters in short waist coats, and guests in elegant gowns or white tails like his own. Dean lifted his head a bit as he was pulled along to a gleaming table at the far end, gold linen tablecloths off setting fine ivory china and cut crystal stemware. Ordinarily, he might have been embarrassed at being paraded in front of the crowd as they briefly interrupted their dancing to stare. Of course, ordinarily, he hadn't let someone kill Sammy. He let his eyes trail back to the floor.

The forest green lettering of the place cards mockingly labeled the third chair from the end Dean Winchester's in charming calligraphy. Not that that wasn't relatively obvious as this was the only chair with a shackle at each ankle and the left wrist. Chair was fastened to the floor as well. _Doesn't matter, Dean, over soon. Over soon. _

An hour passed as the party continued around him, guests slowly filtering to the banquet table. The dresses were of a number of formal styles, but unlike the previous evening, all but two were black. Abigail wore a strapless gown of deepest plum, signature amethyst again around her throat. The youngest woman of the group was also distinctively dressed in a high necked, long sleeved dress of pure white. Some posterior segment of Dean's brain supposed there was significance to that, but the majority of him couldn't come to care.

Abigail finally came to the head of the table, inclining her head for silence at the string quartet to her left.

"Ladies, welcome again. I hope you enjoyed last night and this evening thus far. We have a lovely dinner prepared, and then as you know we have business to attend to. I believe most of you have met our guests, but allow me to make introductions. Muriel, would you stand please?" She nodded as the white clad young woman stood briefly. "Muriel Carson will be initiated later tonight as the thirteenth member of our group, restoring us to a whole missing since Betty's death." Everyone was silent for a moment. "You may sit, dear. I find the other part of our evening especially fitting as a memorial to Betty. It is time to renew the life of our circle with the life of a hunter's child. For Muriel's benefit, each circle is tied to a specific family of hunters, in our case, the Winchesters. Since John Winchester took Betty from us, I will particularly enjoy taking Dean from him. Forgive Dean if he doesn't stand; I'm afraid I thought he might try to leave before dessert." Polite laughter twittered among the other witches. "Dean, we'll be having dinner before we get to your part of the evening, please feel free to join us. Derrick," she looked over her shoulder to where her lackey stood waiting, "perhaps you could select some items suitable to a young man's palette?"

Dean hadn't intended to pay any attention to being displayed for the amusement of the gathering, hadn't intended to listen to a single word. Didn't mean to formulate an escape plan, or a way to fight Abigail. Somewhere between the lobster and tomato salad and the bananas foster, however, a trickle of anger started to seep into the overwhelming doom of being without Sam. Sure the loud voice in the front of his mind still hammered let it be over, over soon, over soon, you've got nothing without Sammy, again and again. But the smaller voice in the back was starting to gain ground. _"Nothing without Sammy, as in nothing to lose." _

_A/N -- Well , the last chapter was buy one, so I guess the next one will have to bring us around to get one.... Anyhow, you don't think that little voice in Dean's head is going to let him just give up , do you? Brownie points for anyone with anything to say about the witches names. Hope you enjoyed it, I'd love to hear from you. A._


	10. Chapter 10

A/N: GLad to hear from some of you on the last chap, thanks so much. This next little section didn't fit well with the last chapter or the one coming up, so I thought I'd post it tonight too as a stand alone.

Chap 9

John rested his forehead on the steering wheel of the black chevy for a moment. _Big breath Winchester. I need to look like a bored salesman, not a crazed father bordering on homicidal maniac._ The Better Business Bureau of Greater Boman stood before him in all its rectangular grey cinder block glory. Definitely the kind of place where you'd stand out without at least an inch of dust settled on you. John knew he appeared anything but settled right now.

His brain had kicked started when Sammy gave him the name of the witch. His trip to Bowman four months ago had been brief, but he was certain several buildings in town sported the word Salem somewhere on their marquees. Combine that with the names Abigail Williams and Betty Parris and he thought he had a real chance to find Dean. Admittedly high school early American history had been awhile, but John had more reason than most to have reviewed the Salem witch trials a time or two since then. Those names couldn't be coincidence. He adjusted his stride to a shorter, timid gait. Satisfied the silver knife and ruger were well hidden, he slumped his shoulders, dropped his chin. Time to ask a few questions.

The secretary at the desk looked at the man who'd entered, another slouched middle aged salesman as bored as she was. "May I help you?"

A carefully controlled hint of his usual smile crossed his face. "I sure hope so. I, well, I kind of fouled up an account and my boss'll have my head if I don't straighten it out, you know? I really need this job and I was hoping you could give me a little background on Parris Industries? Maybe if I could go to the central office it would help save my hide." John threw in a sheepish chuckle and shuffled his feet a bit.

"Hmm, I can give you all the standard BBB pamphlets about local industry, but if you ask me, talking to the manager over at Parris Industries won't do you any good." She seemed to be warming to the topic as only a small town gossip could. Besides, on second look the schlep was kinda cute.

"Why not?"

She gave him a conspiratorial wink. "Well, they had some kind of shake up a few months back. The owner _died_ and if you ask me it wasn't some accident like papers said. The guy running it now, he's just a flunky for the parent company."

John let his smile widen a bit and leaned over the desk. If flirting got Dean back so be it. "So Parris Industries is owned by someone else?"

"You really aren't from around here, are you sugar? Everything in Boman belongs to the Salem Conglomerate, one way or another. Even the building you're standing in." She arched a coy eyebrow in the stranger's direction. Was he standing a bit straighter?

That was the connection he was looking for. Now for the cement to hold his theory together. "And who runs the Salem Conglomerate?"

"Abigail Williams. You'll never get anywhere near her office, though. I'd check with the corporate office over on Sheffield Avenue."

John picked his elbows up off the desk. "Oh, I will. Thanks so much."

"Hey, I could probably dig up a contact name or two over there." Fiddle, he was going to leave.

"That's ok, I've got it from here." John flashed his best grin on the way out. After all, he might need to ask her something again sometime.

As soon as he cleared the door, the smile was gone. This was taking longer than he wanted and he didn't know if he had the time. Didn't know if his son did. Every inch of him itched to smash something, take the ruger from his coat and empty the clip. Neither idea was likely to be useful at his next stop. He pulled the impala into the courthouse records department, fishing in the glove box for an ID that implied he had something to do with the IRS.

The bureaucrat slump replaced the Winchester swagger once more as he again found himself across the desk from someone losing a battle with lethargy. This victim of work-a-day boredom was male, however, so pompous imposition would have to replace flirting for information gathering. John flashed the badge he had selected and cleared his throat.

"I need to see the property records for Abigail Williams and the Salem Conglomerate for the last five years. We have reports of tax irregularities."

The young man shifted in his chair uncomfortably. "I really don't have authorization for that, sir. Do you have documentation with you?"

"Perhaps you're unfamiliar with the IRS? I am well within protocol to inspect those records. Although, if you have a personal interest in hiding them...."

"Of course not. You can use the table over there; I'll bring them to you." The clerk gave a sigh. Authorized or not, he was not antagonizing the Internal Revenue Service. Especially not when the guy in front of him looked like he was born antagonized.

John looked at the growing stack of leather bound registers with frustration. Dean certainly couldn't hold out if he had to read all of them. Even having Jim here to share the work would have been helpful, but there was no way he was leaving Sam alone right now. So, the corporate records or the private ones first?

Generally, a warehouse or closed office building provided a better hiding place than a house, especially if a number of people needed to come and go, as John was starting to suspect. Sam, though, had said house. So did you go with the supposition of a drugged and frightened seven year old or personal experience?

With Sam. John had been teaching his boys to observe every detail of any situation practically since they could speak. Dean was the born hunter of the pair, but his younger son was already incredibly perceptive. Sam might be seven, but he was smart and John saw glimmers of what the boy would become. If he said a house, then it was a house.

Fifteen minutes into the third register he found it. Among several others, Abigail Williams had a country estate called Gallows Hill. Guess you didn't have to be subtle if you owned the town. He didn't bother to speak to the clerk as he made his way back to his car, memorized address rattling about in his brain.

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A/N: Brownies to Woodburner! Please review - it makes me happy, lol.


	11. Chapter 11

Derrick cursed himself for every kind of fool as he cut slivers of quail into smaller bites that could be managed by the sole child at the table. Not that Dean Winchester needed help with cutting meat, on the contrary he had the best knife handling skills of anyone there, but being compelled to eat with one hand chained to the chair arm complicated matters. Derrick didn't even mind that he was playing nursemaid to the kid's dinner. That was actually a bit entertaining as Dean clearly didn't appreciate the help. No, what had Derrick fuming was how utterly stupid he'd been the last few days. All the evidence had been sitting right in front of him for days and he had still let Bill convince him witches didn't exist.

To make matters worse, he couldn't just leave. He had enough police warrants against him that the only way to leave Abigail's protection would be to completely disappear. The money from selling the Winchester brat was supposed to provide that opportunity, but now it looked like all he'd gotten out of that little adventure was incisor imprints in his ear. He should've recognized the counterfeit money before he got back in that boat, but he hadn't. If he ever got loose from here, he was getting that rugrat back. As soon as he got done fixing this blasted dinner plate, anyway. Like a kid was going to eat wine braised quail and parmesan crusted asparagus anyway.

Dean had zero interest in the food, high brow or otherwise. He supposed he should be starving, but his mind couldn't leave Sammy. Sammy had been hungry, too, had been asking Dean for water. Water Dean never gave him; his little brother had died thirsty. Over the last hour Dean's grief had been congealing into a desire for revenge. The strength he was going to need for that was the only thing that allowed him to reach for the crystal goblet and bring water to his lips. He still didn't want to live without his brother; still knew he was going to die tonight. He'd simply decided he wasn't dying alone.

The sips of water were clearing Dean's head, settling the nausea of his concussion. He needed to remember everything his dad had ever told him about killing witches. There were different kinds, of course, but fire and beheading seemed to factor in as possibilities for pretty much all of them. Beheading was the surest bet, but he didn't see a way to pull that off. Assuming he somehow freed himself, he had multiple targets to deal with and a few measley steak knives. Fire could theoretically be done whether he got free or not and certainly could kill more than one person at a time. It also happened to scare the hell out of Dean, but he was going to have put that aside.

Candles abounded on the table, but there was no clear way to reach them. Dean's eyes wandered back to the food, reassessing it as weapons potential rather than edibles. Hmmm, steak knife, that obviously had some potential even if it wouldn't sever a neck. Something that looked like skinny onion rings sat two places down and several bottles of wine had been opened. He contemplated his napkin and made up his mind.

"Derrick?" Dean hated himself for even speaking to Sammy's murderer.

"What?" Derrick might be afraid of Abigail, but at least he could still torment the pipsqueak.

"I'd rather have that." He pointed to the supposed onion rings, right shoulder painfully protesting even that slight movement of his arm.

Derrick snorted. "You want calamari? You know it's squid, right? I knew you'd get hungry enough to beg even me for food, kid. Must run in the family. That runt brother of yours, I gave him plenty of time to beg before I slit his throat. You gonna cry for me too?"

Dean swallowed everything he wanted to say. _Oh god, Sammy._ "N-no. I, I just need to think about s-something else for as long as I can. Maybe I could have a glass of wine? My dad never let me."

The laughter was louder this time. "Cocky attitude kind of goes to hell when you figure out you're dying, doesn't it? Sure, why not? You'll be easier to handle drunk anyway." Derrick piled calamari beside the quail and filled a goblet with red wine. "Eat up."

Dean forced a bite between his teeth, just enough to get spotted chewing. Certainly didn't plan to actually eat this crap. As soon as Derrick's attention returned to the glittering ladies of the gathering, Dean slipped the calamari from his plate into his napkin, awkwardly rubbing it about with one hand. Good thing the junk was greasy. Once the cloth was reasonably oiled, he let the food slip to the floor. A glance confirmed that no one was watching him all that closely. That was the only advantage he could think of to being shackled to a chair. People sort of assumed you'd stay put. He carefully placed the napkin on the table and tapped his hand into his wine glass. The red liquid saturated the cloth before Derrick or the woman seated next to him could react.

"Clumsy boy! Look at my dress! I told Abigail we should have left you downstairs until we needed you. Derrick, take all that food away. No sense in wasting food on the likes of him anyhow."

The flustered witch dabbed at her gown, soaking another cloth. As Dean had hoped, the soiled napkins remained when Derrick took his plate and ruined goblet away. Dean took a gamble that whatever ritual was to take place would also involve candles. He couldn't think of any that didn't, and he'd have a better chance of getting his improvised wicks near those than the tapers on the table. Now he could only hope some part of this evening involved letting him out of this chair.

The last of the dessert plates were cleared away as William stood to address the crowd. "Good evening again. If everyone will follow me to parlor, Abigail and Muriel will join us shortly. Derrick, bring our youngest guest, please."

"You heard him kid, show time." Derrick released Dean from the chair, not noticing the napkins that had disappeared beneath the white shirt. He twisted the injured right arm behind the boy, propelling the stumbling form before him.

_Wait Dean. I have to make myself wait. Gotta give myself the best chance to do this, for Sammy._

A parlor may have been what the builder intended, but the room they entered bore minimal resemblance to that ideal. The room had the same black marble floor as the banquet hall, but the surface was unpolished here, and the pristine ivory damask wall covering of the banquet hall had been replaced by a deep grey-black slate, the natural materials at odds with the glittering opulence of the rooms beyond. The ceiling was composed of heavy ebony wood beams and a pair of wrought iron chandeliers cast candle light feebly down. These were completely overwhelmed by the slab of obsidian stone in the center of the floor. The hand hewn rock was perhaps three feet high, its rectangular top two feet wide and eight feet long. A foot and a half diameter basin broke the exact center, a small fire already burning within. From the smell, Dean guessed it was sandalwood and sage. A silver bowl sat on either side of the flames.

The surrounding ring of chairs almost faded into the gloom. They seemed to be the same ebony wood as the ceiling, in an unforgiving ladder back style. Dean noted with a flicker of interest that two of the seats had cuffs on them this time. The witches filed in silently, each taking an unfettered seat. Derrick predictably steered him to one of the remaining two.

It wasn't until Dean dropped his eyes to watch the chains go back around his ankles that he noticed two additional points about the room. Firstly, these shackles weren't the modern stainless steel of the dining table, but crude unfinished iron. Secondly, there was a slim break in the floor surrounding the center stone. Two inch wide circles surrounded it, the closest one a strip of bare earth that may have extended below the stone itself, the outer one filled with water. He couldn't quite give a name to the unease that came from the natural elements in the room, but that wasn't keeping it from expanding in the depths of his stomach. He stifled a gasp as his wrenched shoulder found a new level of complaint, both hands now securely fastened behind the wooden rungs of the chair.

Muriel entered a few minutes later, the white gown she'd worn to dinner sliding silently to the floor just outside of the parlor entrance, giving way to a sleeveless white cotton shift beneath. It hadn't been evident below the floor length taffeta of the dress, but her feet were bare. She walked a circle around the room's central stone before stopping opposite her seat to dip her fingers into each of the bowls, flicking the water into the hiss of the flames. Nodding at the other ladies, she circled the opposite direction, then bent to kiss the exposed dirt rim at the monoltih's base, finally turning back to her chair to fasten the iron circles about her ankles herself. Her hands remained loose in her lap as she sat.

Abigail and William arrived together, sharing a kiss before he spoke quietly to Derrick and the two men left the room. Dean flinched at the sight, he was resigned to dying here, but he wanted Derrick to go with him. Why'd he leave?

A small silver dagger had apparently been within one of bowls. Abigail removed it, carrying that as well as the chalice to stand in front of Muriel. The younger woman held up both palms, neither one speaking as the dagger drew a thin red line across each hand, although Muriel couldn't quite choke back a sob when the knife dipped to make a deeper wound in the center of her chest. Dean ws convinced he heard the blade grate across bone from the other side of the room. Blood quickly dribbled down onto the white of her shift, a startling crimson bloom.

Abigail cleaned the blade in the bowl, then took a sip of the bloodied water before offering it to Muriel so she could do the same. She returned the dish to what Dean had realized was their altar before she spoke.

Parum sorora cruor iam effundo

Antiquus orbis iam conficere

Universa totus pes ingredi nostrum iunctus semita

Effundere vires venator habere

Dean squirmed in his chair, wishing he'd paid more attention to the few Latin lessons John had attempted as her voice filled the close chamber. He recognized the word hunter, hoping Abigail wasn't getting to his part of the ritual just yet. He relaxed a fraction when the other witches rose.

Each plucked a sage bundle from the floor, lighting it afire before walking the circle to trail the end of the stick through the blood on Muriel's chest and then extinguishing it in the as yet untouched bowl. Pricking her finger with the dagger, each of the ladies then added a drop of her own blood to the containers and finally to the flames. Their voices joined Abigail's in the low murmur of the chant.

Incendia addo suus animus ut nostri

Aer altivolus nostrum placitum ut divum

Terra ad ancoras deligara nos ut vita

Unda fluere ut malus jurgium

Dean felt the air in the room begin to stir, oddly making it hotter. The cloying heat and flickering light on top of the last three days were wearing on the young hunter, threatening to send him back to his earlier despair. _This needs to end._ He shook his head back to alertness.

Venator parvulus animus sumo

Aevum pensus per nummoreus pueritia

Pallium cruor orbis signum

Finire vita conventio vigoratus

Abigail had released Muriel from her chair and was leading her forward to the altar. The newly made witch kissed the older woman's cheek and knelt. Abigail deftly wove the blond strands of the younger woman's hair into a sleek braid that trailed to her hip, then severed it at the nape of her neck. The freed tresses joined the sage in the fire, adding a stench to the proceedings.

While Muriel returned to her place in the circle, Abigail advanced on Dean, a smile spreading across her face in the dim light. She simply stood considering him for a long moment, then bent to kiss each cheek, her smile widening further when he shrank back in the chair. She held one of the silver vessels to his mouth, pinching his nose until he reluctantly gagged down the blood-laden contents.

Dean felt his head began to swim as the metalic fluid puddled in the back of his throat and fought to refocus on the movements of the coven. He realized the haze he initially assumed was all in his head was at least partially the sage smoke swirling around him and knew he would have to act soon before the air became so befuddling he couldn't.

"I'm afraid your adventure here has ended hunter-child. Come." She ran a possesive finger down to outline his throat.

He felt a shiver climb his spine as she unlocked his limbs, aware the waiting of the evening was about to end, one way or the other. He'd heard the lecture a hundred times – never go into a hunt without a plan. That was all well and good, but these witches had been hunting Dean, not the other way around. He was going to have to hope for an opportunity, make one if he could. If not, well at least a few more hours would see him back with Sammy, wherever that was. He didn't have time to figure out if he believed that about dying or not.

"Are you going to behave, Dean, or do I need to help you?" She moved her hands in the complicated pattern he'd seen in the cell below, again resulting in his limbs moving on their own.

Dean swallowed hard, reminding himself of the fear lecture he'd given Sam. Yeah, cause it worked out so well there. He had to convince the witch to let him move under his own power. "I'll behave, witch. Got no desire to drag this out."

"Oooh, good boy!" Her fingers ruffled through his hair as he stood, a gesture walking the fine line between parental and predatory. "Follow me."

He approached the altar behind her, both of his hands clasped in one of hers. She positioned him at one end of the stone, let his hands fall to his sides as she slid the jacket off his shoulders.

"Get rid of the shirt, socks, and shoes." She picked up the dagger, not quite trusting her young charge to obey. This was a game until he took a shot at escape, and they both knew it.

This wasn't the moment. He stumbled over the unfamiliar cufflinks and tie, but he still managed to keep the two squares of soiled green linen hidden as he stacked the now folded clothes.

"Sit, youngling." Her empty palm slapped against the black stone.

Dean climbed onto the altar top, inching his way closer to the small fire pit. _Almost…._

Abigail and the other witches resumed their low chant, the latin droning over Dean as her hands forced his hips sideways, pulling his feet onto the rock surface as well. His toes grazed the discarded clothes as she put both her hands on his bare chest, right fingers still curled around the knife. She allowed her knuckles to grind into the purple black mess of his swollen shoulder as she pushed him, intending to lay him back on the stone.

_Almost… _He bent his knees to make his supine form fit on the right half of the altar, permitting the not so gentle maneuvering until his skull skimmed the rock beneath, cheek brushing the silver vessel on the way by. _Now! _

Dean grasped the oiled napkin with his toes, flipping it up to grab with his injured hand as his stronger left arm swung at Abigail, knocking the blade away from his chest . He twisted upright, barely aware of the vicious slash she'd opened across his ribs as the cloth in his hands went into the fire pit, rapidly catching between the grease and the wine.

He kept a tip of the fabric in his fingers, flinging the impromptu torch in Abigail's face.

"No!" Her shriek was satisfying, but the clatter of the dropped knife was better. Dean rolled off the table to the floor, snagging the blade before she knew it was gone. A feral grin graced his young face as he noted her dress was ablaze.

"Don't believe I'll stay for the party games, thanks." Dean knew he had to get out of this room before the other witches recovered from their surprise and attacked him.

Two of the others turned their attention to Dean, the remainder seemed focused on helping Abigail. The chamber was in sudden uproar. He held the knife in front of him, keeping his back to the wall as he side stepped to the door. As he'd hoped, the physical threat appeared to limit their concentration for spell casting. Unfortunately it didn't keep the taller of the two from trying to tackle him. He really wished this blade was bigger than a tinker toy.

The witch's arms wrapped around his waist as one of her feet tried to sweep his from beneath him. Little knife or not, it was what he had. He slid it beneath her ribs, aiming up into her chest and wrenching it in a twist as hard as his battered body would permit. Thankfully she released him, her companion easing her to the floor rather than continuing the attack on the boy they had clearly underestimated.

He found the fortunately unlocked door and ran into the brighter light of the hallway, hoping the banquet hall would be empty by now. Bare feet slapped against the polished floor.

He reached the deserted room, the table still set from the meal of an hour before. Perfect. He discarded the ceremonial blade in his hand for a larger carving knife, then tipped over the still burning candelabras, lighting the linen of the tablecloths. For good measure, he snagged a stray candle and lit the elegant draperies in several places, making a quick circuit as he heard footsteps rapidly approaching from behind.

Unlike the parlor chamber, nearly everything in this room was flammable and an inferno quickly ensued, shielding Dean from being immediately found by his captors, but threatening him as well. Didn't matter if he went down with the ship, as long as it went down.

He struggled to the entrance at the opposite end of the hall, confident that the door leading back to the parlor didn't lead anywhere else. Reaching the only other exit, he hesitated for a moment. Run through and try to find a way out? _No, not with Sammy gone__._ Stay and bar the door. He'd made his decision before the evening started, said a silent goodbye to his dad. An unwelcome flash of Sammy's nursery so long ago tormented the edges of his mind. _Wish_ _this didn't have to be a fire. Suck it up, Dean_.

The crackle of the raging fire had been joined by Dean's harsh coughs as he choked on thickening smoke, stumbling back away from the now locked door. Yells of the witches cut through the room also, but the billowing black prevented him from seeing any of their owners. He picked out Abigail's voice, Muriel's, several others. He managed a gallows smile when he heard William's and Derrick's amid the cacophony.

He sank against the wall, exhausted, spent. _I did it Sammy. I'm so sorry it wasn't sooner. Don't really know what happens now, maybe I'll see you Sammy? Please…_

The intense heat began to lick at his face even as he buried it against the knees he'd pulled up to his chest. Falling embers from the blazing ceiling melted into the skin of his unprotected back, singed his hair. The other voices echoed farther away, even as he heard screaming about names he didn't recognize being dead. _Good._ The only voice coming closer comforted and terrified him at the same time. Was it really there?

"_It's okay baby. I love you. A few more minutes and it will be okay. I love you."_

"Mom?"

Dean closed his eyes, trying to center in on the voice he hadn't heard in so long. No one else had ever called him baby. Hands wrapped around his shoulders and for the slightest minute he leaned into them, ready to let himself fall into his mother's embrace_. All done…_

Until he heard her voice in his mind again, frantic, forcing him to open his eyes into the stinging smoke. _"NO! Dean, no!"_

The hands didn't belong to his mother's voice. They belonged to Abigail.

Dean lost whatever acceptance he'd had, cringed away from the murderous eyes inches from his own.

"I can still make you regret this boy, make you beg me to die." She'd acquired another blade somewhere and began to carve a design on Dean's chest, floor hot enough to make the falling blood droplets sizzle.

Dean opened his mouth to reply, torn between hurling an empty threat and surrender.

Another voice rang out before he had a chance to speak, booming through the barred door.

"WHAT IN THE HELL IS GOING ON IN THERE!?!?!! DEAN?!!?"

A/N - I'm assuming everyone else had the same trouble posting the last few days, but looks like I'm back in business. Pretty please let me know what you think of this one - it's a very visual chapter in my head, but not sure that it came across here. Thanks for reading!

Bad poetry translation if you must:

Little sister's blood now shed

Ancient circle now complete

All feet tread our joined path

Spill the strength the hunter hath

Fire bring her power to ours

Air soar our plea to sky

Earth anchor us to life

Water flow to darkling strife

Hunter's child soul to take

Age paid in coin of youth

Stolen blood the circle seals

His ending life the coven heals


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 11

He jerked his thumb back from the door handle, unconsciously sticking the blistered digit into his mouth as he considered the heavy door. Even the hinges were shifting from their polished nickel coloring to the beginnings of a cherry orange glow.

_Not a fire. Not again. It couldn't be happening again. Stealth be damned. Hell, common sense be damned. _John squared his shoulders, preparing to bust his way into an inferno. He raised his fist to pound the charred barrier, voice booming through.

"What in the hell is going on in there!?!?!! DEAN?!!?"

The seam between the double doors provided a glimpse of a scene to rival the ninth circle, a doom no sane man would enter. John, however, had checked his sanity at the door the instant his sons turned up missing. He was getting in there . The lock bar held firm. The hinges, then. Scouting the foyer around him, he grabbed a small table, turning it into a battering ram. The wood splintered in his hands, embedded itself in him as he pounded again and again, barely noticing when the table remnants fell away and his shoulder began connecting with the door instead.

The flames of the room beyond had spread to the ceiling above, sparks sizzling into his hair. A final shove and the door caved in, fire bursting forth just as he dropped to the floor , instinctivley rolling to quash the flames that licked at his clothing.

"Dean!!!"

He couldn't see; the black trails of obscuring smoke thick as a demon swarm.

_Come on son, a hint here. Where are you? _"Dean?!!!"

_There! A voice... Not Dean, but any life in here means maybe, just maybe, my son is alive. Please..._

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"Abigail! Leave him! We have to get out of here, the ceiling's coming down!" William clawed at her gown, trying to drag her away from the child. "Abigail! Now!"

"NO!" The deranged face she turned on her lover was one he didn't recognize. Soot and sweat streaked the once beautiful face, only partially masking the burns marring her skin. The long plum gown was in shredded tatters, parts burnt away.

Only her hand remained in any semblance of control, shallowly carving an ancient spell into Dean Winchester's chest. He'd fought the first bite of the knife, flinching backwards into the wall, groping blindly for the carving blade he'd stolen from the table earlier. His time here and the fire had weakened him and as the symbol had grown his struggles had lessened. Now, aside from a few feeble tosses of his head, he'd gone still.

"Have to finish," her breath was coming in harsh pants as the flames advanced on the three of them.

"Abby, please. The others are dead or dying. The spell doesn't matter now. Let's go." His voice softened as he regarded the woman he'd loved half a millenia, again trying to pry her away.

"Have to..." she began to choke, even a witch needed air.

William pounced on his opportunity, gathering her into his arms and tugging her away in the blinding darkness. He couldn't see if the boy lived and didn't care. They had to try to get out.

She was chanting something new under her breath, not part of the hunter's spell she'd been desperately trying to complete. He didn't care about that either if they could escape this hell.

Abigail made a last grab at Dean's wrist, jerking it close to her face in the blackness, fingers desperately searching for the mark her chant should have raised there. She had to be able to find him again, even a marker to lead her to his charred bones would help her rebuild the magic circle so clearly being destroyed around her. Unblemished flesh met her knarled fingertips.

"NO! IT HAS TO BE THERE! NO!" _That spell should have branded the youngest living Winchester_. A new series of spasmotic coughs ended her tirade as a chunk of falling plaster bounced off her thigh. It was then that she realized William was dragging her toward the exit, a strange irregular crawl from a man who had danced in his youth with Renaissance queens. What was wrong with him staggering about anyhow? Oh. The fire-gnarled leg repulsed her.

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John heard the yells and pulled himself up to a half crouch, trying to find what little cooler air remained near the floor. Cool was a relative term, even this low the air seared his lungs through t shirt he'd hastily tied around his nose. He angled toward the noise. If there was that much trouble still alive in here, Dean figured to be in the middle of it.

A soft form nearly tripped him, giving under his feet in a way the fallen beams and crumbled furniture had not. _Who? _He knelt, one hand seeking the features of the face, the other freeing the machete from the small of his back.

His questing fingers met long silky hair, some of it falling away into his palm in crisped strands. _Not Dean._ He traced to the tip of the nose, a huff of breath registering in his mind a split second too late to keep the witch's teeth from sinking hard into his hand. _Crap._

The machete severed her neck, sticky blood flow over John's fingers confirming what he couldn't see. The increasing howl of the fire blended into her death rattle. One down for Dean. He resumed stumbling toward the noise he'd heard before.

"Stop! Bill? Bill, help me!!"

John turned toward the other man's voice. He had to be close, no way to see or hear more that a foot or two. Squinting through the stinging tears of the smoke he could just make the slithering form out, not ten inches from his outstretched arm.

"Not. Bill." He rasped, grasping the other man and yanking him close. Touch again served in place of vision, wiry curls of hair beginning a third of the way back on the skull.

"Derrick Weaver?"

The man hesitated, unsure how anyone who didn't know him could possibly have gotten into the house under the current circumstances. A fireman, maybe? "Yes."

"Well, hello there, Derrick. I'm Sam Winchester's father." The blade made a pass across the throat, the corpse striking the floor before John finished speaking. "Glad to make your acquintance."

John shook off his rage at the dead man at his feet; wasn't going to help him find Dean. One son might be avenged, but he couldn't lose the other.

"DEAN?!!?" Still no answer._ I am not leaving here without him_.

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William had tugged Abigail within a foot of the doorway, relieved that the foyer wasn't completely engulfed yet. Relief that was short lived as he felt the heat boiling up from the floor. The massive mahogany doors had fallen in, their flames blocking the way.

"Abigail, you have to think, love. There's no way I can move these by hand. Can you?.. Somehow?...." He'd seen her force people to move against their will a million times, but he wasn't sure that extended to objects, even under the best of circumstances.

"What? No. I..." She couldn't get her thoughts together in the chaos. "Wait. They are wood, were something alive once. Maybe with enough power behind it..."

Words that William couldn't identify tumbled from her lips, but he recognized the gist of it. A blood binding, connecting the life force of one living thing to the will of another. He knew the theory, move the door by bending the remaining life of the tree in the wood, but there was no blood sacrifice here to fuel something of that magnitude.

Sudden pain seared his arm and shoulder, Abigail's dagger ripping from the base of his neck to past his elbow, exposing the bone. Sure enough the wood shifted out of her path as his blood flooded onto the charcoaled timbers.

"Abby?? My arm... Ahhrrrgggh." He fought to form words. "Abby?? I love you. Please?? Help me. Always loved you..."

"Hmmm? Oh, yes. Love you too, William." Abigail stepped over the betrayed form and fled.

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John made his way past four more witches, three dead before he found them, one after. He'd doused the fabric over his face with the holy water flask he habitually kept in his jacket, but he couldn't last in here much longer. He had to find Dean now.

"Dean?!"

_Please son..._

A new tongue of flame flared directly above him, the red light momentarily overpowering the darkness. _Oh no. Oh no, no. Dean._

His son slumped against the wall, congealed blood obscene across his chest and an eye, left half of his face and right shoulder savagely bruised, muscle peeking through a gashed side, ash smeared in sweated streaks over the rest of him.

Having fought so hard to find him, John now found himself reluctant to close those last inches, fear creeping into every recesss of his mind. As long as he was paralysed in this moment, there was hope. Cross the gap and he'd have his answer.....but what if that answer confirmed his son was dead?

CRACK!

The sharp noise over head cut through the wail of the fire, the thoughts careening in his brain; an instant's warning before the last of the ceiling timbers crashed to the floor. John flung himself over Dean's body, curled protectively over his child as the debris hissed into his back. A larger chunk connected with the back of his skull and then the older hunter stilled, consciousness as black as the fire that enclosed them.

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A/N - Couldn't let John go unscathed, now could we? Where's the fun in that?..... So we're back to the part where I try to bum reviews out of everybody - hmmm, hopefully you're not too bored with that. Thank you so much for the lovely reviews thus far, I really appreciate all of you who are reading.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 12

Dean felt his chest buckle inward, a weight expelling what little air he'd managed to drag in. _No....Is this how it feels to die? Maybe this is how it feels to be already dead. I hope not, I can't feel like this forever.... Sammy?.... Mom?...You here?_

_Wait..... I hurt. I hurt a lot. More than a lot.. Dead people don't hurt, do they? Please tell me Sammy doesn't still hurt. I think....I think maybe I'm not dead._

He fought to draw in another breath, searing heat of the air bringing it all back to him. The fire. He opened his right eye, the left firmly refusing to budge. After Abigail's carving he was prepared for the stinging weight on his chest to be almost anything. Anything except what he actually saw.

"Dad?"

His father's motionless form draped across him; flickers of fire lapping at his jacket cuffs._ No, no. I can't kill him, too. I just can't. Should've saved Sammy, should've gotten away. Dad wouldn't have to be here.... My fault... _Tears threatened the corners of Dean's eyes. Must be the smoke.

"Dad? Wake up.... D-dad? You have to wake up." The choked rasp of Dean's voice barely reached his own ears, giving him little confidence it would reach his father's. He held what breath he had, tensed until he felt the rhythmic movement of his father's chest against his ribs. "Dad?"

The whisper began to percolate into John's brain, tickling at the edges of awareness. A frail voice he didn't recognize as his son, yet there was no one else there.

"Umppff. Dean." The pounding in his skull, the singed burn of his back didn't matter. Dean was alive. "Y-you okay?"

"Can't. Breathe. Dad." Gasps punctuated his words as he forced some volume behind them.

What? No, he had to be okay now. Not after all the kid had so obviously been through. The fog in John's head dissapated as he focused on his son. "Dean?"

"I'm. Squashed."

A smile ghosted on John's face, hidden from his son in the darkness. Of course. "Sorry."

He set himself to shifting his bulk off his child, ignoring the lancing pain in the small of his back. He had to pull Dean out of here. A final lurch and he rolled off his son onto his grilled back, smothering a dozen tiny fires in the process. Truth be known, he couldn't really breathe either.

"We're getting out of here, Dean, together. Can you stand?"

Dean twitched in an effort to do just that, his legs ignoring his attempts.

John's gut twisted at the sight, doubting he could carry him all the way to safety. "Dean! Get. Up. Now!"

"Yes sir."

Dean got his feet under him, felt his father's arm around his shoulders, both holding him low to the floor and propelling him forward. _He doesn't know about Sammy. If he knew he'd leave me here. How am I supposed to tell him?_

He looked at his father and then realized what that had to mean. He _looked_ at him. He could see into the cloying blackness. They were moving closer to the light of the blaze. "D-dad?"

John had been certain it was coming to this since the roof collapse. "There's no other way out, Dean?" His son was a Winchester, he would have scouted the exits.

Dean considered the far door to the parlor hallway, still convinced this was a dead end. "No sir."

John nodded, shrugging out of his jacket. He held it out to Dean, covering his hair rather than trying to ease it past the nearly immobile shoulder. "Keep your head down and don't stop no matter what."

Dean managed a nod. His dad was leading him through a solid wall of fire. _Never disobey an order..._

The fire had roared overhead and at the walls almost since Dean first torched the draperies, and smaller trash had been ablaze all around him, but this was different. This was straight frickin' through._ I'm_ g_onna be seeing Sammy after all._

John intentionally hyperventilated, tested the footing on the once polished flooring, and leapt, hauling his son with him.

There was no describing the sensation of jumping into the fire_, _of feeling his clothes ignite, seeing Dean's do the same. Fortunately, there was no time to try. One second John was convinced he was killing them both, the next they were clear, heavily impacting the marble.

John continued the roll of the fall, ignoring Dean's moans as his tumbling weight worsened every injury the kid had, suffocating the flames. The shirt around his face and the jacket over Dean were a lost cause, abandoned as they skidded to a stop. He counted to ten slowly as they both panted amid the smoldering rubble. Time to move.

Dean allowed John to steer him, sensing they were closing in on the door, feeling his father's fist close on the waistband of his pants to haul him back to his feet with each ragged stumble. He hissed sharply as his bare feet once again extinguished an ember, finally collapsing onto his stomach for good.

"Get up!" John's heart tore, but he relied on the only way he'd ever known to motivate the boys. Dean had already shown him a capacity to shove beyond the limits of endurance, work through the impossible. "GET! UP!"

"Yesss s-s-ssir." The answer was softer this time, slurred. No attempt at movement followed.

_Not now. Not when we're this close. _The dim outline of the shattered doorway loomed mere feet away. John wormed his hands underneath Dean, rolling him tight into his chest. He staggered with the shift in weight, shutting down the alarm bells in his head at the silence from his older son. Dean wouldn't knowingly permit himself to be carried, even by his dad.

_One foot in front of the other John, keep yourself moving._

The dark changed, still black, but cooler, the flickers of orange above replaced by white twinkled dots. It took John's oxygen deprived brain a minute to process what had happened. Once it hit him, he dropped to his hands and knees, gratefully curling his fingers into the earth. _Outside. We're outside. _

He settled Dean on the ground, fingers seeking the side of his neck. There it was, a thready flutter. _Thank God._ The movement of the slim chest was slight, no more than a tenuous grasp on life.

"Come on Dean, breathe." He rolled Dean onto his side, flat handing sharp slaps between his shoulder blades until the boy started to cough. Harsh wracking coughs that once started wouldn't stop, gasping inspiratory wheezes interspersed with the spasms.

John could see the impala where he'd left it what seemed like eons ago, weighed carrying Dean there against the approaching sirens. There was still time to escape, avoid the questions. He took another look at his son. No, they'd be waiting for the sirens.

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The fire crew screamed up the drive, cutting the sirens as the mansion came into view. Flames roared into the sky, the roof gone, walls collapsing inward. Not much to do but keep it from spreading to the guest houses and staff quarters.

"No way anyone's alive in that. Awful that it had to happen now, though. I heard in town there was some sort of shindig up here tonight." The driver waved his hand vaguely in the direction of the house, wondering how much use the ambulance trailing behind them was going to actually be.

"You kidding, Hank? That party's probably why this happened. Folks get all tied up in their pretty candles and a million extension cords, have a few drinks and presto, you got yourself a fire." He opened the door as the truck stopped. "Let's see what we can do."

Hank climbed from the cab as well, joining the three crew members from the back who were already uncoiling hoses. "Not much left to save...."

"Wait. You see that?"

"What?"

"There, at the side of the house."

Hank followed his partner's finger, spotting the man silhouetted against the crackling house. A man hunched over a smaller form, mouth bent to his face.

The two broke into a run, approaching the pair on the lawn.

"Sir!?"

"Sir, what happened?" The fireman dropped to his knees beside the older man, already beginning to assess the boy on the ground. Carotid pulse was there. How long had the man been breathing for him?

His partner handed him an ambu bag, bleed in line for oxygen attached. Now if he could dislodge the man from the boy to get it in place. He wasn't convinced the man even knew they were there, the rhythm continuing uninterrupted, raising his head, a gulp of air, then sealing his lips on the child's face for another pair of breaths. The desperation etched in the movement was frightening.

"Your son?"

John nodded, peripherally acknowledging the other.

"I can help him, but you have to let me in there, okay? He needs the oxygen mask. You need some help, too."

John shook his head. "Just him." He rocked back on his heels, reluctantly allowing the medic access to Dean.

Hank lowered the mask, squeezing the attached bag to deliver air. His eyes raked over the pair of them before he reached for his radio. Gonna need a second ambulance. He couldn't even find an unscorched spot on the man's shoulder to lay a reassuring hand.

"What's his name?"

"Dean. His name's Dean." John gave in to a coughing fit of his own before continuing. "I'm John."

"Ok, John. I'm Hank. I'm an EMT, the paramedic fellas are right behind me. They'll take over, get you both to the hospital." His hands continued to work as he spoke. "How long did he stop breathing?"

_An eternity._ "A few minutes at most. He was still coughing when I started to hear the sirens."

"Good, ok." He pulled the mask up a fraction, using a light to peer into Dean's throat.

"Breathing tube?"

So, this one knew a little. "You a medic, John?"

"No. Just helped out a few hurt friends now and again. Well?"

Hmmm. "He's swollen in there, but I think there's something else we can try." He held up a pencil sized red rubber tube, responding to the other man's raised eyebrow. "It's a nasal trumpet, should hold his upper airway open."

He twisted the tube up into Dean's nose, feeling John's stare raise the hair on his neck. Watchful, this one. He waited once it was in place, eager to see if the boy would draw a breath. "You can do this, Dean, come on kid...come on..."

He was reaching back in his bag for an ET tube when they heard the wheeze.

"That's it, there you go, kiddo. That's it." John clasped Dean's hand in his own, barely aware when the promised paramedics traded positions with Hank.

The next minutes passed in a blur, IV's inserted, neck brace snapped into place, a stretcher slid beneath; John only tearing his focus from his son when a foolhardy soul tried to block his way into the back of the ambulance.

"John, there's not enough room. Besides, there's only oxygen hook up in there for one."

"Oxygen?" A surprised hand went the plastic mask on his face. When the hell had that happened?

"Wear it now and you may be well enough to stay with Dean once we get to the hospital."

Bribery always was more reliable than flattery for getting John anywhere.

John somehow managed to stomp and limp at the same time, glowering his way past the empty stretcher to climb into the second ambulance on his own. At least he could see the unsalvageable remains of the house. Save having to come back with Jim to finish it.

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John had permitted the emergency room an hour to dress the burns on his back and hands, alternating between questioning and cursing the staff. An older doctor with graying hair finally approached him.

"Mr. Connor? I'm Dr. Taylor. I've been taking care of Dean. If you'll ride in the wheelchair, I'll take you to him."

_I'll ride in a goat cart and play the tambourine if it gets me back to Dean._ "How's my son?"

"Better than I would have expected, actually. He'll need IV fluids and oxygen for a few days, and wound care for longer, but if he can avoid pneumonia he should be fine. He's starting to wake up now. Strong kid you've got."

_Damn straight_. "Yeah, that he is." _He's okay. He's gonna be okay. I got 'em both back, Mary, promised I would._

"You know, I'm sure there was a lot of falling debris in that fire, but some of Dean's bruises are older than tonight. Any thoughts on that?"

"We've had a bit of a rough week, Doc, got involved in a car accident a few days ago." John chose his best sincere smile.

"That explains it then." The doctor smiled back at John, pulling open the door to a dimly lit room. "Go sit with your son. I'll be back in the morning."

He turned to go, then glanced back over his shoulder. "Oh, and Mr. Connor. CPS is pretty involved in this town. They're going to need a copy of that traffic report before we can discharge Dean."

"Sure Dr. Taylor. No problem." _Perfect. Just freakin' perfect._

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_A/N - It was so nice to come back to the reviews for the last chapter - thank you all so much!!! I want to respond to each of them and I'm getting started on that now. I hope you enjoyed this chapter, figured we just had to get the fellas back out in some fresh air, lol! Let me know what you think, and I always love speculation on where it's headed._


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 13

He looked so small in the bed, purple bruises and scorch marks stark against the pale skin. John sat in the chair close by, watching his son sleep. An oxygen mask covered the lower half of Dean's face, meeting the short diagonal line of stitches at his left eyebrow, and yards of white gauze wrapped his torso, disappearing below the crumpled sheet at his waist. A metal pole festooned with plastic bags sprouted clear tubing that tunneled under the bandages encasing both arms.

Yet none of this was what held his eyes, what made the scene surreal. No, the astounding strangeness of this tableau was that his son looked like the child he was. Dean had never been a child, their lives hadn't allowed that, and to see him as such rocked John to the core.

Another hour passed before Dean stirred, a subtle tossing of his head accompanied by dots of sweat that proclaimed his sleep no longer restful. The unswathed tips of his fingers twitched, fending off an enemy no longer there. Wisps of conversation moved his lips, words John couldn't hear and wasn't sure he wanted to.

It wasn't that John didn't recognize the throes of a nightmare, or even that he he was afraid of the dream per se. It was simply that he realized that for all the bad dreams that occured under the Winchester roof, only one member of the household had any skill at calming them. And he was the one having the nightmare. Dean had snuggled amd murmurred Sammy through evil teddy bears and creeping closet shadows, had silently brought a cup of coffee to an abruptly awakening post-hunt John. It had never occurred to him to wonder if his elder son ever needed someone to do the same. Hell, the more he thought about it, he was fairly certain that _Mary _had been the last one to coax Dean from the terrors sleep could bring. Had it been seven years since Dean had needed that? _Or seven years since anyone had bothered.... I put too much on him, and he never questions...._

The constrained tossing and turning continued, mumbles gaining volume if not coherency.

"No. Get away from him! No..... Dad?......No, can't take him......No!.......Derrick..........No, no.....wait.........Dad??........NO!"

"Dean? It's ok ace, you're ok. Shh, son, it's ok." _God, why am I so bad at this? At what point did any and all comforting in this family become his job? "_Wake up for me, Dean. Everything's ok." John finally concluded that between three days starvation, the beating of his young life, smoke inhalation and pain killers, his son would wake up when he was good and ready.

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Jim Murphy paced the small motel room, seriously considering cursing his friend, status as a pastor not withstanding. John had left him with Sam at three in the afternoon, chasing a lead on Dean. Now it was nearly six in the morning. Fifteen hours that had been going poorly before the child refused to speak a single world to him. Before the local news announced a mansion burned to the ground. You know John just had to have something to do with that.

Jim wandered to the dresser, wondering if he could run enough water through the small coffee pot to ditch the bitter taste and make one of the packets of cocoa for Sam. Although knowing John, the child probably already liked coffee. Other than the water earlier, he'd had practically nothing, thinking the older man hadn't noticed the biscuit and jam disappear behind the bed after a single bite.

"AAAHHHHHH!"

The ceramic mug shattered against the counter as the pastor dropped it, forgotten as he wheeled to face the boy on the bed behind him. Sam stopped screaming before Jim could get to him, right arm cradled tight against his chest and further protected by drawn up knees as he rocked himself, hissing against against sudden pain.

"Sammy? What is it?" Jim could see nothing other than the suddenly flushed face, but the hiss was quickly disintegrating into a whimper. "Where are you hurt, son? Sam?"

Sam offered him nothing, blinking away tears and curling tighter, wanting nothing more than his brother.

"Sammy? Come on son, it's the arm, isn't it? Let me see it, ok?"

The soft words slowly reassured him enough to surrender the arm, permitting the priest his first startled assessment of a charred brand inside the wrist. A solid triangle slightly protruded from a two inch outline of a circle, seared bits of flesh flaking loose at the edges.

_What on earth... Has to be the witch, but that fire would have burned down hours ago.... _Murphy shoved his own concerns aside, focusing on reassuring Sam. "The wrist is burnt pretty good there, Sam, but the area's fairly small. I know it hurts, but I think you'll be ok if we put something on it."

He grabbed wet washcloths from the bathroom and ice from the bucket he'd filled earlier, then returned to lay the arm across his knees, flinching more than Sam did as skin came away with each wipe of the cloth. He applied a generous coat of burn ointment from the drawer and wrapped a clean t shirt around the arm, then piled on the bag of ice. Other than a few sniffles, Sam never made a sound.

Now he was curled in his bed facing the wall, pretending to sleep. Jim decided to let him play out the charade, wincing every time he heard the child mutter to himself. Sam didn't think his dad and brother were coming back.

_Phones, Winchester, they make phones.... _

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Mid morning brought a louder shout that jolted the dreams in a way that John's reassurances had not, Dean's fingers closing around his father's hand in a half conscious haze on the way to true wakefulness. The ramblings of the most recent nightmare quieted and John allowed himself a tight smile. Seeking out his hand for comfort would be gone as soon as Dean fully opened his eyes. It wasn't that he wouldn't permit it. Dean wouldn't.

Dean felt the mattress below him, mentally surveying the aches coming from every inch, flexing muscles limb by limb. Right arm was still the worst, although a burning pain across his chest and side ran a close second. Nothing new beyond what he remembered then. The mattress wasn't as soft as a cheap motel, not as thin as the horror of the last few days. A bedrail pressed against his thigh. A hospital.

Awareness of the flesh against his hand came next. Softly held, but calloused fingers. Dad. Dean knew he should talk to him; it was one of the rules of their world. As soon as you know it's safe, report in. A commander can't make plans if he doesn't know what he has to work with.

Rules weren't holding much appeal for him at the moment. He wanted these few minutes, minutes when he was still sure his father loved him. Minutes before he had to tell him about Sammy. The last minutes before his father knew he'd failed.

_Oh God. Get it over with, Dean. Just tell him. Nothing that happens can be worse than the fact that Sammy's gone._

"Dad?"

"Hey, you awake kiddo?"

"Yeah." Dean held his breath a moment, fighting down a cough and started again in a rough, low voice. "Dad, about Sam...."

John shifted in his seat, took a deep breath of his own. He'd been waiting for this, fearful of what he was about to hear. There had been no time to sort it out in the escape from the fire, but it wasn't lost on John that Dean hadn't so much as spoken his brother's name. Dean's first question was always about Sam. Always. What had he seen that had spooked him this much? He'd only spent a few minutes with his younger son before leaving him with Pastor Jim. Had he missed something that had happened? Something awful?

"Dean, your brother...."

"Dad, I tried. I swear I tried. I am so sorry. It's my fault..." Dean began to sob, terrifying John in a way the fire hadn't. "I tried so hard, but Derrick came for him.... I- I couldn't stop him Dad.... Sammy was calling for h-help and I... I couldn't do anything. He's g-gone, S-Sammy's gone..... I am so sorry...My fault…" Dean turned his head away, eyes tightly closed against the tears, sobs squelched into silence.

John looked away from his son, the torment of that basement all too easy to visualize. Then it registered, a swift kick that nearly stopped his heart. They were worried about two entirely different things. _Gone.... but he hasn't asked to search for him, not once.... Dear God, he thinks his brother's dead._

"Dean. Look at me."

No response.

"Dean, now." The command of the words was at odds with a gentle tone that rarely fell from John's lips.

Dean focused his eyes on his father's face, steeling himself to find rejection there, surprised to find only a resigned sadness.

"I'm s-so sorry, Dad."

"Dean, listen to me. You are my son and you did everything you could to protect Sam. Everything I could expect of you and then some. None of this is your fault." He paused to let that sink in. "Dean, your brother is fine. I left him with Pastor Jim to come get you. He's alive, Dean, alive and fine."

"Wh-wh-what?" If Dean had ever prayed the sound of it was in that whispered word. "N-no, Dad. Derrick came and.... and he t-took him..and..."

"Dean. He's okay. I promise."

At first John thought the sobs had started again, an odd hicupping sound permeating the room. Then he realized his son was laughing, hysteria tinged laughter mixed with tears as Dean struggled to believe what John was trying to tell him.

"You going to be ok for a minute, son? I'm going down the hall to call Jim; I'll have him bring your brother. Sammy's fine, Dean." John knew his son didn't truly hear him, but that was ok. As soon as he got Sam here it would all be fine.

One of the hospital administrators stopped him as soon as he stepped outside the door of the room.

"Mr. Connor?"

"Yes." No sense volunteering information.

"There is a child protective services worker in my office who would like a few minutes of your time. I believe Dr. Taylor might have mentioned that?"

John plastered a sincere smile on his face before he answered. "He did as a matter of fact. A simple misunderstanding, I'm sure. Dean is a just waking up and a little upset about the fire. Perhaps we could do this tomorrow?"

"No, Mr. Connor, I think we should do this now."

_Course you do...I mean why the hell do anything the easy way...."_Of course. Now would be fine."

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John hopped the elevator to the hospital lobby, quickly dialing, not surprised when Jim picked up on the first ring.

"John, where on earth are you? Did you find Dean?"

"Hospital, and yes. He's more or less ok. Look, doc's a little suspicious and CPS is nosing around. Take Sammy and go."

"Go!??! Your son hasn't spoken to me, he thinks you aren't ever coming back, and you have the car." The pastor was trying his hardeest to remain patient with his friend, but it had been a long night for everybody.

"Jim, ah, maybe I uderstated a tad. CPS just officially took Dean. He'll be an inpatient another few days at least and I'll figure something out, but I can't risk Sammy. Steal a car and I'll meet you in Blue Earth." John sighed, aware both of his boys needed him at the moment. "Put Sammy on the phone."

"I'll **rent** a car and see you there. Here's Sam."

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A/N: For any of you that saw this posted on another site last year, yes this is a little divergent from the original. I thought I rushed it a bit. Or maybe I'm just dragging it out now, lol. Either way, there's only a chapter and an epilogue now I think, barring serious plot bunny invasion.

Oh, and as someone reminded me in the reviews, I never got around to saying much about the witches names after I brought it up a few chapters back. Abigail Williams and Betty Parris were the two girls who started the hysterical accusations of the Salem Witch trials - seemed like a good name for evil here given the number of innocent people that died. Gallows Hill was one of the execution sites, so I borrowed it for the name of Abigail's estate.

Reviews pretty pretty please? Whoever said begging was undignified, right? Actually all of you have been great about reviewing and I really appreciate it! Thank you!!


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 14

Dr. Taylor arrived before dawn expecting a difficult day. Pediatrics he loved, but dealing with the police, CPS, and a potentially abusive father wasn't what he signed on for. He peered into Dean Connor's room on his way by. The boy curled toward the father's empty chair, sleeping with his face buried in the other's leather jacket. Whatever happened, Taylor was starting to have doubts that John caused it.

He checked with the night nurse on her way out; there'd been no problems from down the hall, medical or otherwise.

"No, the father only came to the desk once, asked me how Dean was, then went back to standing outside the door where he could see the boy. I changed Dean's dressings around four a.m., gave him some pain medicine. Other than that, not a peep out of either of them."

"Okay, Beth, thanks. Good night."

The doctor nodded at the security guard at the door, raising an eyebrow at John's absence. From his conversation with Beth it sounded like the man had been right outside the room all night. The guard shrugged, gesturing at the coffee shop entrance at the end of the hall. "Can you get his father? CPS and the police have agreed to him being in here when I'm here."

He entered the room quietly, expecting that he could watch the slumbering child a while, try to cement his opinion. Instead the boy was instantly aware of his presence, eyes following the doctor around the room.

"Where's my Dad?" _He left, I screwed up with Sam and he left…._

Dr. Taylor was considering what to tell his patient when John Winchester slipped into the room, deceptively calm, only his eyes hinting at the storm of barring his path to his child.

"Morning doc. What can you tell me about my son?"

Dr. Taylor slipped a stethoscope from his pocket, listening to Dean's chest before answering. "Wheezing a bit still, but his pulse ox looks good. All in all, I'd say he got lucky, even with an early pneumonia. I think we can get rid of this oxygen mask, try a nasal canula instead. He needs to stay on the nebulizer treatments and IV fluids and I'm going to adjust his antibiotics."

Dean started to raise a hand towards his nose, wincing when the bandages pulled tight.

"Wanting that tube out of your nose?"

The single eyed nod was comically vigorous.

"I can do that. Hold still." Dr. Taylor removed the oxygen mask, putting on a pair of gloves from the box on the wall before grasping the flared red rubber protruding from a nostril. A quick twist and it was gone. He settled the oxygen tubing over his face instead. "Better?"

"Yeah, doc. Thanks."

John redirected the conversation to the idea of pneumonia, needing more information before deciding how soon to get Dean out of here. "So, antibiotics are going to take care of this?"

"Yes, they should. Even without the pneumonia, he would have needed them for the burns. We'll do another chest x-ray this morning and make sure nothing is progressing. Dean's still running a fever, so I would prefer to keep him on IV antibiotics another few days before we try anything oral." It struck Dr. Taylor that if this man didn't actually care about his son he was doing a darn good job of pretending. Still, CPS had made a fairly convincing case.

"I need to speak to your son alone if you don't mind." Dr. Taylor smiled and turned to Dean, trying to gauge his young charge. "So, ready to tell me what happened?"

"I can go over…" John found his sentence interrupted.

"Actually, Mr. Connor, I was asking Dean." The doctor's smile remained as he indicated the door, but the warmth beneath it fled.

John shot a glance at his son, decided he looked too pale to handle a scoop and run just yet. "Certainly, I'll be back in a few minutes."

"So, Dean, I've heard some funny things about that house over the years. What happened to you?"

Dean ground his teeth together, determined to remain quiet as Dr. Taylor unwrapped a mummy's worth of gauze. They'd proceeded mostly in silence since Dean repeated the fire after car wreck theory for the fourth time. The last of the bandage finally hit the floor.

The doctor handed him a mirror, angling it so could see his chest. "Wanna try again?"

Dean stared a long time at the circle and enclosed triangle clearly carved there, four letters within. S-o-r-o…

"Penny for your thoughts, Dean. Someone did this to you, I had no choice but to report it. My gut feeling is that it wasn't your Dad, but that's the first person the police and CPS decided to ask." Taylor sat on the edge of the bed, waiting.

"I can't stop them asking." _CPS, great. That's how this whole mess got started…._

_Stubborn kid._"Ok, Dean, I can't make you talk to me. There's a Mr. Keenland coming from CPS, maybe you'll talk to him. Just so you know, CPS already took custody away from your Dad pending their report, you might want to think about that.

John returned half an hour later, immediately noting the pinched look to Dean's face even from the door. He convinced the security guard to accompany him into the room, grudgingly accepting a five minute time limit. _These people are on thin ice as soon as Dean can travel….._

"What'd the doctor say?"

"Nothin' much." Dean desperately wanted to ask again about Sam, be sure last night's conversation wasn't some figment of his imagination. As long as they were using the Connor alias, though, it was at least possible CPS didn't know he had a brother. _Maybe I don't …_

"We'll work this out, son, everything will be fine once we get to Jim's."

Dean struggled to sit up, frustrated when he couldn't. _I've got to see Sammy, have to know for sure_. "How soon can we leave?"

"Whoa, kiddo. Not now. Get better first." John turned a plan over in his head. "I'll be back later, I've got something to check on. Can you handle everything here?"

"Everything's really ok?"

"Yeah, Dean." A hint of Winchester exasperation crept in his voice, he knew Dean was asking about Sam. He also knew the kid could handle a few rounds of twenty questions with the authorities. They'd practiced it enough.

He looked at his dad, then sank his head deeper into the pillows, running a hand over his bruised face_. He's leaving me to deal with the police_. "I can handle it here."

"Good. I'll be back tonight."

"Yes sir."

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"Dean Connor?"

"No, Harry Houdini."

"Dean, I'm Mr. Keenland, I'm from…"

"I know who you are." Dean stared at the middle aged man at the foot of his bed, taking in the rumpled grey suit, brushed on the collar by equally grey hair over watery dull eyes. The dingy white shirt was divided by a silver grey tie, idly making Dean wonder if he'd wandered into a black and white movie.

"There's no need for the attitude young man, I'm on your side."

"I doubt that."

"Why? Don't you think anyone would be on your side?" In spite of the question, he didn't appear particularly concerned.

"Oh no you don't. No reading some sort of psycho babble into what I said. I'm fine."

"You're in the hospital, Dean, so you are not fine. I'll get you settled somewhere safe tomorrow and then maybe you'll be more comfortable talking."

"I'm safe here." _Or close enough…. _

"I understand you may not be able to talk about your father with him so close by, but this will all be ok. I already have a family arranged for you once you can leave the hospital, they have a space available for at least six months. They have a son your age, so you'll have a sibling of sorts to talk to for once, and you'll be protected."

_Six months? They aren't even considering giving me back. Nope, I'll be 'protected' … right. Least Dad managed to hide Sam from them, though. Unless… no he wouldn't have lied to me about Sammy. Not unless… maybe he needed me to keep it together long enough to get out of here… No, Sammy's ok, has to be…. _

"You don't understand jack."

Mr. Keenland's mouth puckered, looking vaguely like he'd tried a persimmon. "Why you want to defend the bast… uh, man is beyond me. I tried to be nice Dean, but you are coming with me tomorrow, with or without a police escort. It's for your own good."

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John waited in the woods surrounding the mansion, making sure the fire investigative crew was gone to lunch. He touched as little as possible in the ruins of fire, avoided an urge to detour to the charred remains of the basement. As he'd hoped, the corpse sites had been mapped already. Eleven markers. Knowing he only had moments before the county officials returned, he scouted the area where he'd encountered witches the night before, but saw no additional bodies. He knew he'd killed Derrick, so ten witches here at most. At least three missing. _Crap_.

The impala purred into downtown, such as it was. John visited both drug stores, limiting how many supplies he bought at each, then plundered the county archives for any old news stories involving the Gallows Hill estate and the Taylor family. Yahtzee. No wonder Doc doesn't like the place. Boman was a small enough town that every family got tied up in its scandals somehow. _Huh, little blackmail never hurt anybody, right? How nice of the doc to have a crazy old aunt…. Wonder what he could tell me about Gallows Hill if I had the time…_

His next stop was the motel, double checking the room Jim had rented. A quick perusal of the room and register revealed no evidence that John Winchester and his son, or John Connor for that matter, had ever been there. Good.

He returned to the hospital, seeking out Dr. Taylor. The only remaining recon was some straightforward information on Dean.

The sharp tap interrupted a stack of charts Dr Taylor had been meaning to get to for days. Now what? He stood, opening the door to his private office.

"Mr. Connor. Can I help you?"

Two very peculiar hours later rehashing the indiscretions of his youth and relatives and the doctor decided Mr. Connor might be the most persuasive person alive. Just what had he agreed to?

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

John stationed himself outside Dean's room once again after dinner, offering no explanation for the day's absence, content to watch his son sleep from the doorway. Dr. Taylor had convinced the police Dean was too upset to speak to them after the conversation with CPS, but John had received no such reprieve. Small towns were stupefyingly predictable. John was a stranger, there was a probable arson, his son was banged to hell, must be his fault. _Funny, the only thing they didn't accuse me of was murder, and I technically I did that…_

The next day was an endless round of medications and bandages, CPS and the police deciding to bar John from the entire floor of the hospital when it seemed Dean wasn't going to talk to them. Mr. Keenland figured the glimpses of his father through the door were enough to intimidate the child out of telling the truth about the horrors that simply must be occurring in his home. If the boy even had one, looked more like he'd been living as a vagabond.

John figured they had another twenty four hours at most before CPS moved his son, and they had made it clear they wouldn't be telling him where. Not happening.

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Rounds on Dean's third morning found Dr. Taylor arriving at hospital mind numbingly early, rousting John from his office chair. "Thought you might be here." The doc was pretty sure the man had never hurt Dean, but he doubted that safety extended to himself. The knife handle visible at the hunter's waist and gun in his hand confirmed that for the nervous medic_. Oh shit._ "Let me check on Dean and I'll be back."

John grunted an assent, intentionally glaring at the man to reinforce a silent threat. It was a shame really, in other circumstances, he would have liked the guy. Wasn't the doc's fault that John's life made for CPS issues.

Dr. Taylor entered Dean's room, Beth following behind him. "Let's see if we can get you up." He helped Dean sit, swinging his legs around to the edge of the bed. "Catch your balance before you stand, ok?" The doc shot a glance at the night nurse, silently indicating she should be ready to catch.

Dean lurched to his feet, listing precariously to his left before crumpling into Beth's arms. Taylor lifted him back into the bed, tousling the dark blonde hair at the disgusted huff.

"Actually not a bad first try. Dizzy?" Dr. Taylor raised an eyebrow.

"Nah. Legs just gave out."

"Right, kid. Don't push it too fast." Taylor shrugged at Beth, waiting for the nurse to leave the room, then sat on the edge of the bed. "Dean, can I ask you something?"

Something about the doctor's tone made him wary. "Yeah…."

"CPS is moving you to another hospital this afternoon. You still need IV medicine and fluids for a few days and they aren't happy with security from your father here."

"I ain't goin' and that's not a question."

"Fair enough. I'm not sure how to ask this I guess. Look Dean, not for CPS, not for the police, just so I'll know…Do you trust your Dad?"

Dean altered his face, attempt at attitude gone as he completely dropped his guard, willing Taylor to see that. "Always."

"He didn't hurt you, did he? Someone did though. Let me help you."

"Someone did hurt me doc, but the only person that can help me is my Dad." Dean held the doctor's eyes a long minute.

"Alright, that's all I needed to know."

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"Ok, I didn't give up my beauty sleep for nothing. Is my med student of the day ready? We need to get this done before the sane people get out of bed." Dr. Taylor eyed John as he re-entered his office, trying to bluster over his fear.

An hour later, Taylor was flexing his elbow, wondering how long the bruise would last. He'd taught hundreds of students to start IV lines, and John Connor was a pretty quick study, but he definitely remembered why he made them practice on each other. He couldn't bring himself to allow the man to practice on Dean though, and he couldn't drag anyone else into this. Good an explanation as any for the four IV catheters in his left arm.

"I got it doc. What else?" John shifted impatiently. Making it passed breakfast without getting arrested seemed unlikely if they didn't hurry up.

"You'll need to know how to take out those sutures…"

"Got that one covered, I'm good at stitches."

"Why is that not surprising? No, I don't want to know." Dr. Taylor hastily held up a hand. "Next stop then is burn dressings. None of his are third degree burns except that area on the right shoulder, so mainly you're trying to prevent infection and scarring. I don't even think the chest will scar all that much if you're careful. We'll need to go to Dean's room."

The doc eyed the 9mm that had been on his desk for an hour, untouched since John put it down to try the IV's. "Aren't you worried I'll take that?"

John narrowed his eyes at the man, as if considering the possibility for the first time, then chuckled. "You take my gun? No. No I'm not." He'd made sure the doctor saw it first thing this morning, underlining his intention to get his son out of here, but he knew he wouldn't need to use it. Not with this one. Tucking it in his waistband, he nodded at the door. "Let's go."

The security guard opened his mouth at Dr Taylor's second arrival so early in the day, but he never got a chance to voice his question. He slid bonelessly to the floor, John wrapping an arm around his shoulders to quiet the fall and then dragging him into restroom.

The doctor stifled an audible gulp as he shoved the used sedative syringe in his lab coat, not quite believing what he'd done. What he'd need to do once more before the other man could clear the hospital's back door. Thank goodness versed made people forget.

All of the burns were cleaned and redressed twenty minutes later, Dr. Taylor managing a slight smile at Dean as they finished. There wasn't a trace of fear in the child at his father's touch, maybe this was the right thing after all.

John demonstrated all the physical therapy exercises he'd been shown him earlier, and finally took the IVs out of Taylor's arm before lifting Dean off the bed. "I pass muster?"

"Not bad,_ Dr_. Connor. Remember, IV fluids for three more days, antibiotics for ten, start the exercises tomorrow. You're ready."

Dawn was still hiding from the sky when Dr. Taylor sat in his office, busily charting the mysterious disappearance of Dean Connor as impala tail lights vanished from the hospital driveway.

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_A/N - somehow I didn't think John would opt for a knock down drag out fight with Dean that weak, but hey, they're out, one way or the other, right? Hope you enjoyed the chapter, please let me know what you think. There's only an epilogue to go now.... have to tie up those loose ends - like Sam for instance, lol._


	16. Chapter 16

_A/N: Well this is the last chapter. Sorry it took a few days but things here got a little busy. This is sort of a short chapter and epilogue together, I hope you enjoy it._

_Chapter 15_

Abigail drew a stuttering breath, forcing air through charred lips into an equally singed airway, grimacing at the burning cough the simple act produced. Shriveled fingers grasped the fall browned leaves, struggling for enough purchase to hoist herself up. She had no idea how long she'd been on the ground, likely a number of days, and no clear idea of where she was. The seared remains of her house were nowhere in sight as she finally managed to sit up, burnt flesh cracking and falling away in pieces to reveal peeks of bone. No matter. She'd been an old hag of a witch once before; she could restore herself again. It would take years, and yards of, er, borrowed skin, but she could do it.

The harder part would be rebuilding the destroyed coven. Oh, young witches might be a dime a dozen, but ones with true talent, ones you wanted as a sister for centuries, now that was another matter. She'd have to choose carefully. Of course any that didn't end up being satisfactory could always contribute to that pesky replacement skin problem, she supposed….

Assuming she was going to live centuries more. As her mind cleared of fog, the last moments in the fire came back to her. She hadn't finished the spell she'd been desperately carving into Dean Winchester's body, the spell she'd done so many times before to ensure another four generations of life for herself and the others. Once she healed to some extent she'd have to take care of that. The boy was no doubt dead in the ashes of the house somewhere and his bones could buy her some time, but in the end she'd have to find the right spell to link her coven to another family of hunters now that there would be no Winchester heir. The task was daunting, like everything else supernatural, the hunter population was dwindling. Not that she minded dwindling it just a bit more. It might not have the soft texture she wanted, but the first person she was in the mood to skin was John. _Someday, Winchester, I'll have retribution for what you've done….what you've reduced me to…._

For now though, she'd have to find Dean's remains the hard way. She still couldn't understand why her last spell didn't work. She'd abandoned the more complex ritual on his chest to perform a simple locator spell so she could come back for the boy, use him as she needed. There had been plenty of time to complete it in the house and she'd even repeated the words the following dawn, trying to find the error, but there wasn't one. She didn't want the link with John, so she'd carefully specified the youngest Winchester, knowing that should raise a branded mark on Dean's wrist. But it hadn't appeared. Not even a welt, no satisfying scream from the child. It was worth scrying for the binding anyway she supposed, especially if he had survived somehow. No, no he couldn't have. Both the little brats were dead and that would have to console her until she could get her hands on the father. Now that would be a day to cherish, to plot and plan for, dreams to sustain her. Visions of John screaming wove their way into her mind, releasing a cackling mirth that silenced the forest for miles…

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Jim paced the pine planks of his living room, wondering when he'd actually succeed in wearing a trough in the floor. Sammy sat huddled in the corner of the couch, arms clasped around his knees, subtly rocking himself through another coughing spell. The last few days the kid barely spoke to him, offering monosyllabic answers to direct questions without lifting his eyes from the floor. The cough wasn't helping him feel any less miserable, although the pastor supposed it shouldn't be any surprise the child was sick after a half dressed ride across the lake in the autumn air.

"Sam? Why don't you take some cough syrup and go on up to bed? I know you were hoping your Dad would be here by now, but even John slows down for this weather. He'll be here as soon as he can Sammy." Jim realized that really wasn't who the youngster was desperate to see. "_Dean _will be here as soon as he can… So the cough syrup?""

"No thanks." Sam dropped his forehead to knees, his answer barely audible.

Jim considered a minute, then crossed the room to sit and wrap an arm around Sam's shoulders. "Dean's fine, Sammy. You've talked to your Dad on the phone every morning the past seven days and I know he's told you. He's told me too. Dean had pneumonia and he has to take a few more days of medicine, but he's much better. He's just hoarse, that's all. Would you eat a little?"

"No." The tone was a mere shade over a whisper.

"All you've had today is a slice of toast, and I'm not sure you even had that yesterday. I could make you some soup?"

"No. Please..."

The defeated tone made it pointless to ask again. Only one thing was going to help the youngest Winchester, and it wasn't Jim Murphy. "Ok. They'll be here later, may as well get some sleep until then. They are coming back, son, you know that."

"Don't." The coughing was back before he could elaborate.

"You don't know? Yes, Sam, they are. Sorry, but I'm going insist on some medicine. John'll have my hide if he gets here and you're sicker than Dean." The slack expression on Sam's mainly hidden face gave the cleric little hope that the sunny child he knew was still in there.

"There you go." He set the teaspoon back on the table, and then offered a hand to pull Sam up. "Let's get you upstairs."

The hand went ignored, but Sam did stand up to follow him.

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John pulled the impala into the graveled driveway three hours later, entering the house in a whirlwind of rain, sleet, and dead leaves, propelling a mostly asleep Dean in front of him. He steered him to the couch, softly snorting in amusement when Dean pulled the pillow over his head without ever cracking an eye to confirm he was at Pastor Jim's. So much for hunter instincts tonight.

The elder Winchester and the pastor unloaded everything from the car and settled on the screened in porch to talk. The air was absolutely biting and the screen didn't keep all of the sideways rain from blowing in, but neither man wanted to wake the boys. Besides, Jim had a penchant for watching storms, the worse the better, as if there wasn't enough turmoil in his world.

A crack behind the house ripped Dean from sleep, bolting him upright. Thunder? No, the settling creaks that followed eventually seeped into his befuddled, half drugged brain. A tree had fallen. A quick glance outside confirmed that moving shapes carrying flashlights, presumably his father and Jim, were already headed to the backyard and no doubt would take care of anything that couldn't wait until morning. He briefly considered joining them, but he didn't even remember arriving and the only thing he wanted to do right now was find his brother.

He flicked the switch on the lamp, groaning when that produced no illumination. The feeble light from the storm-darkened night sky was worthless, not a glimmer of moon poked through. Dean felt his way to the kitchen, wandering fingers confirming the flashlights were missing from the shelf. Figures. The drawer by the stove was more useful, yielding a couple of candles. He lit one, ignoring the memories the tiny flame produced, and made his way upstairs, assuming his brother was in the guest room.

And stopped cold at the threshold. He'd expected a PJ clad Sammy burrowed deep in mangled covers, a few wisps of hair the only evidence of his existence. That's what he'd come to expect over many cold nights in cheap motels. But that wasn't what met his eyes. Sammy was flat on his back in the middle of the over sized bed, atop the bedspread, tennis shoes peeking out from the bottom edge of a dark wool throw blanket while his grey sweatshirt was visible at the top. His hands were folded across his stomach, carefully arranged on a cover that was completely without wrinkles. The pale face looked sallow in the flickers of the candlelight.

_He looks … he looks dead…. Dad never gave me the phone…. Told me we'd talk when we got to Jim's….. I had to get better first….. Looks dead….. Sammy???.....oh God…..I let that bastard take him and…… no….Dad hides things when he thinks it's safer, but……not this…..no…no, no…...S-Sammmmyy????_

Dean didn't feel his feet drag him across the floor, didn't feel his knees buckle as he sank onto them. He didn't feel his hand ghost over the nubbed comforter, his chest lean into the side of the mattress, or his forehead come to rest on the bed. _No….. I'm so sorry Sammy…..no…. I believed Dad, but……..no, no, No, No, NO!_

He didn't feel the slight shift of the bedding, the trembled breath as hazel eyes snapped open. He didn't think he'd feel anything ever again…. ….

….until he did. Thin arms snaked suddenly around his neck, the force of the jump knocking him backwards to the floor, laughing bundle of little brother thumping onto his chest, earsplitting squeal in his ear.

"DEAN!!!!!"

.

EPILOGUE

The papers scattered over the desk couldn't compete with the window view for John Winchester. Dean was propped in an old lawn chair of Jim's, jacket bundled against the fall air, while Sammy sat on the ground, head tipped back against his brother's knee as he twirled a reddened maple leaf. He couldn't tell what they were talking about, but it didn't make any difference. The ring of open laughter, the conspiratorial smiles and evident dimples drifted into the open kitchen, his sons in a rare moment as two carefree boys wasting a Saturday afternoon.

Stifling a smile of his own, John reluctantly returned to the photocopies he'd collected over the last two weeks, sorting his three piles once more. The first two he'd been sharing with Jim, tying up loose ends from the hunt. None of the circle and triangle patterns in the photographs before him exactly matched the ones he knew were lurking on his boys' skin, although he'd found one very similar to the mark on Sam. Jim thought it was basically a pointer spell, a way for a witch to find her prey. The symbol on Dean didn't match the pictures for a totally different reason. It simply wasn't completed. John turned the photo of the finished version facedown, knowing that if the final letters of sororitas had made in onto his son's chest there would have been no rescue. He'd come that close to burying his eldest.

The third pile John kept to himself. Of all things he's researched in seven years of hunting, his family tree hadn't been one of them. When Dean confirmed Sammy's statement about Abigail killing Winchesters before, he started digging. And there it was. Every fourth generation as far back as he could trace, an oldest son had been found dead. Some were recorded as accidents, some murders, but somewhere between ages nine and fourteen, they all died. His great grandfather's older brother had been discovered floating in the family pond. A three foot deep pond for a ten year old child that reportedly was a good swimmer. How could he not have known? What else about his family, or Mary's for that matter, lay hidden? Goodness knows his own father was a tight lipped one whenever relatives came up. _Dammit Dad…_

John stood, stretching before tucking the papers away and heading for the backyard. He was certain Abigail Williams had survived, and equally certain that was a temporary situation. She wouldn't need a branded spell to find the Winchesters. Nope, not gonna be waiting around for that_. I'll find you witch, count on it. And when I do….._

FINIS.

A/N: All done! Please let me know what you think, I'd love to know, good, bad, or indifferent. And yes, there is intended to be a follow up story to this one, but it isn't written yet. I expect it will be a month or so before I can work on it as I have to finish another piece first. I may post another story here in the meantime if anyone is interested. Let me know about that, too. Hope you enjoyed it.


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